The Lost Kingdom of Cardolan
by Kendoka Girl
Summary: In the Year 1409 of the 3rd Age, the Witch King of Angmar lays waste to the North. The Elves of Rivendell and Lindon turn the tide, but danger lurks and spies abound.
1. Sad Stories about the Death of Kings

**Introduction**  
  
_Note - This fanfiction is based on a role playing game I played in hish school and I wrote it then. I've edited it and made some changes. The places and characters and certain passages are copywrited by Tolkien and ICE. Hope you enjoy it.  
_  
The year is 1409 in the Third Age. Our story takes place in the Kingdom of Cardolan, located in the North of the continent. The Kingdom is ruled by the Dunédain, a race of long-lived men. At one time in the past, Cardolan was united with two other realms into the great Kingdom of Arnor. In the year 861, Eärendur, the tenth and last King of Arnor died, dividing his lands among his three sons, thus creating the Kingdoms of Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur. Thus, Thorondur became the first King of the new land of Cardolan. He quickly became popular in the Kingdom by easing restrictions on trade and expanded the public works, while rebuilding the walls of the capitol, Tharbad. He established a treaty between the sister Kingdoms for the joint use of the watch tower of Amon Sûl, the greatest fortress of the North and the home of the powerful seeing stone, the Palantír.  
  
In time, tensions rose among the realms and after the death of Thorundur. His younger brother Aldarion, King of Rhudaur, attempted to reunite the lands in 949. Several minor skirmishes resulted, but the death of Aldarion in 951 ended Rhudaur's bid for power. The squabble became more serious in 1084 during the reign of King Tarandil. A war of twelve years ensued. Sides shifted, but most often Arthedain and Rhudaur contested Cardolan's attempts to posses Amon Sûl. The war was indecisive, but its expenses and those of Thorondur's building projects caused a depression in Cardolan.  
  
The dynamic King Tarandil reorganized the Kingdom, overcame the depression, and brought it to the height of its power. He established a military academy starting the tradition of the Warrior Kings of Cardolan. He curtailed the power of the princes, reducing their authority by making them Hiri (Lords) and establishing a national army paid by land grants. The King continued by revitalizing the guilds, the market, and as a result, the economy. This succeeded beyond Tarandil's fondest hopes, and soon he could maintain a court, army, and fleet.  
  
Tarandil's ambitious son Calimendil, sought to prove himself worthy of his father's legacy. In 1197 he launched a protracted war into Rhudaur to overthrow Rhugga, a Hillman "Barbarian" who had usurped the throne of Rhudaur. Rhugga was an effective and popular leader despite his unsavory methods. The war dragged on for thirty-eight bloody years before Calimendil trapped the Rhudaurans in Cameth Brin, the fortress capitol. Finally, in 1235, Cameth Brin was beaten, its lower levels taken by the Army of Cardolan. That night, the exhausted knights and soldiers rejoiced, but unknown to all, an army of Orcs (evil, warped creatures) had answered Rhugga's pleas for aid and had secretly marched East. The Orcs fell upon the unsuspecting forces of Cardolan. The Royal Pavilion fell, and with it well nigh all the lords of Cardolan.  
  
The battered Cardolani were pursued home through the raging snows of winter and by spring, eastern Cardolan was ravaged and the land had no king. Seven people now claimed the throne and the situation was nearly as bad in four of the baronies. Civil war raged throughout the countryside on the national, provincial, and local levels. The Kings of Arthedain and far off Gondor both sent expeditions to explore their own potential claims to the crown. During the next fifteen years Tharbad changed hands eight times, and the Royal Compound at Thalion, eighteen. Finally, in 1248, the Dwarves of Moria sent a powerful and well-armed force to Tharbad to set up and enforce a truce. A council was convened and Tarcil the Mariner, of the Royal Line, was elected the new King of Cardolan.  
  
In 1276, during the reign of King Tarastor, an evil spirit named the Lord of the Nazgûl came to the far North and established the Kingdom of Angmar. His goal was to destroy the three northern kingdoms. A renewed war between Cardolan and Arthedain between 1284 and 1287 kept everyone's attention away from Angmar and by 1300 the evil kingdom was completed and the Lord of the Nazgûl became the Witch King of Angmar. Over the next fifty years the Witch King's minions infiltrated the Kingdom of Rhudaur through guile and assassination. By 1350, Rhudaur was firmly under the iron fist of the Witch King. Soon thereafter, Angmar and its new ally, Rhudaur launched a brutal assault on the lands of Arthedain and Cardolan. The war raged for seven years ending in 1359. Victory came to the men of Arthedain and Cardolan only with the help of the Elves of Rivendell. The Witch-King's Armies were slaughtered, but there were not enough forces in the realms to counterattack into Angmar and thus the war of attrition ended.  
  
King Minalcar spent the next twenty-two years rebuilding his lands and fortifying his borders. Upon his death in 1381, his son Ostoher continued the process. By the dawn of the new century, new hope filled the Kingdom. The Palace of Thalion was restored and trade flourished with Gondor, Cardolan's powerful southern neighbor. The people were happy, having nearly forgotten the horror of the Angmar War. The King, his three sons, and his young daughter enjoyed tremendous popularity and lavish parties were held in the gardens of the Bar Aran (Royal House in Tharbad).  
  
Having recovered from the lashing of the last war, the Witch King tried his hand again in 1408. Vast armies of Orcs and evil men crossed through Rhudaur, overrunning the last of the Rhudauran rebels and pouring into Arthedain and Cardolan. A hasty alliance was formed by Kings Arveleg of Arthedain and Ostoher of Cardolan. The battle plan had Arthedain pinning the enemy at the Tower of Amon Sûl as Cardolan would anchor the flank and swing in behind the Angmarim and Rhudaurans to crush them.  
  
As always, the best laid plans... Before the respective armies could be positioned, the Witch King had his two warlords force march into battle. The warlord of the northern force, "The Angûlion" obliterated the capitol of Arthedain, Annûminas, and laid siege to the city of Fornost, held by young Prince Araphor. Thus the bulk of the Arthedan Army was trapped far from Amon Sûl where King Arveleg sat vastly outnumbered. Then the warlord of the southern force, Rogrog, fell upon the unprepared army of Cardolan...  
  
**Book 1  
  
Chapter 1  
  
THE BARROW DOWNS, Summer 1409  
**  
Smoke swirled across the fiery spring sky as the King's Men made their last stand. Cries of dying orcs resounded like some hideous chorus, magnifying the terror that gripped the Barrow-downs. Cardolan's end was at hand.  
  
His back to a Standing-stone, Ostoher surveyed the battlefield, all the while praying to Varda for salvation. His loyal warriors seemed hopelessly outnumbered, despite the fact that they had slaughtered a hundred score of the Witch-King's minions. Daylight was still too far away.  
  
The warlord, Rogrog had struck at midnight, allowing the Cardolani no time to dress, much less prepare an adequate line of defense. King Ostoher fought without pants, shirt, or even padding beneath his enchanted breastplate. He cursed himself for his lack of foresight, for he had never expected the Nazgûl's Warlord to force march in the early evening. As he turned toward a noise, he uttered: "Why must these noble souls pay for my confusion?"  
  
Ostoher brought his great-sword down, sweeping through the first pair of attacking Orcs. He moved left and felled another with a mighty blow that cleaved the beast's iron helmet. Then, through the black smoke, he spotted the huge shadow of his enemy. The King turned again, pressing against the cold stone that guarded his ancestors. As the Troll closed, he uttered his last oath: "My blood may color this grassy hill tonight, but the Spirits of the Edain shall sleep undisturbed."  
  
**THE TOWER OF AMON SÛL**  
  
"By the Valar...we are destroyed..." the Warden of the great seeing stone, the Palantir, turned slowly away from the glowing crystal sphere. His elderly face was drawn and tired looking, the weight of impending doom weighing heavily upon him. From the massive tower of Amon Sûl, he had viewed the invasion of his homeland by the armies of the Witch-King of Angmar.  
  
The sun was just rising, illuminating the battlefield for the seer. Twenty miles north east of the tower it became apparent that the army of his homeland, Cardolan, had been annihilated. Rogrog, had force marched his orcs through the night and attacked with surprise. King Ostoher and his sons were slaughtered with well nigh 80% of the Army of Cardolan. Rogrog was continuing his onslaught and would be at Amon Sûl by nightfall.  
  
The Warden brought the grim news to King Arveleg of Arthedain, Cardolan's northern neighbor.  
  
Arveleg's eyes glowed with rage. "Those weaklings...I knew they could not be trusted hold our flank!" He pounded his mailed fist on the oak table before him, splintering it. His anger struck fear into even his elite stone wardens, hand picked guardians of the Palantír. The Warden, though offended by the insult to his homeland, withheld his feelings. This was no time to lose control of his senses, he reasoned. Right now, his sole purpose was to save the remnants of shattered Cardolan.  
  
The tower of Amon Sûl was a marvel of ancient Númenorean architecture. A monumental spire designed to hold the Master Seeing stone of the North. Constructed of grey-blue granite and rising 280 feet above the moat, its spire could be seen many miles away. The Dunedain felt the tower to be impregnable. The tower itself was surrounded by a patchwork quilt of outer defenses: ditches, walls, and moats. The Garrison of the tower was split between the two Kingdoms of Arthedain and Cardolan, both of whom shared a border at the tower. Arthedain's army numbered 20 knights and 200 foot soldiers, while the army of Cardolan consisted of 40 foot soldiers and 50 elite heavy infantry. A dozen veteran Stone Wardens rounded out the force assigned to protect both King and Palantír. In the past, the two forces had suffered strife when tensions rose between the Kingdoms, but today they would all be either victorious or dead.  
  
Throughout the day, the men of Arthedain and Cardolan worked furiously gathering stones, winding catapults, fletching arrows and boiling oil. Several dozen Cardolani stragglers had even bolstered their ranks. At dusk, the army of Rogrog could be seen. A line of spears and horses spread across the horizon. On the battlements of the outer defenses, the grim defenders stood silently. The cold wind howled through the crenellations. By nightfall, the Army of Angmar had deployed and the tower was surrounded.  
  
From the pinnacle of the mighty tower, King Arveleg gazed into the Palantír, focusing his concentration. Unbeknownst to most, the Stone could be used to communicate with another who had a similar stone. Within the crystal sphere the face of a young man began to form. The adolescent was clad in silver plate armor adorned with seven stars.  
  
Arveleg commanded, "Araphor, my son. My force is surrounded...we can hold siege for a week at most...send reinforcements immediately!" The force of Arveleg's will could be felt through the Palantir and it sent Araphor a step back.  
  
The young Prince responded timidly, "Father, our city of Annuminas is now under siege also. We are being attacked by none other than the right-hand man of the Witch King himself...the Angûlion."  
  
The King fumed. "I did not ask for an excuse!!! I asked for more men...You have eight thousand in Annuminas and another two thousand in Fornost. I command you to send any not directly engaged in the defense of the city. You will be here in three days!!!"  
  
Araphor bowed. "As you command, Father."  
  
The King turned away as the stone grew dark.  
  
King Arveleg had reigned for 53 years, ever since the death of his father, Argeleb, at the hands of the Rhudarans. Arveleg had brought the Kingdom back from the brink of destruction and crushed the enemies of Arthedain. He was truly a Warrior King and a hero even amongst the great. This night, his armor shone like a star and his legendary White Bow sang in the wind.  
  
The proud forces of the Arthedan Dagarim Aran, or Royal Army, stood on the battlements with their black armor covered with black surcoats. Seven white stars were arrayed on each warrior's chest and black-faced shield. The Cúrim, or company, from Cardolan wore silver-colored chainmail, and carried purple shields and surcoats trimmed in silver. They each bore the symbol of their homeland: a hill surrounded by seven stars. For three long days the defenders held a desperate defense of the fortress. They fell, one by one, thinning out the force along the wall. Finally, the forces of Angmar were ready to deliver the coup de grace.  
  
Three hours before sunrise, the mighty horns of Angmar tore the night silence. Waves of orcs broke upon the outer wall. Arrows poured thick upon attacker and defender alike. Stones and boiling oil fell upon screaming orcs, but still they came. Arveleg's bow rang out in the night until his arrows were spent. One by one the Stone Wardens fell before him. Soon, only the King was left, flailing about with his mighty enchanted sword. Piles of orcs grew around him, but it was only a matter of time.  
  
The old Seer bowed his head before the Palantír. "Arveleg is gone. We are lost." After a minute of silence, he rose and with renewed strength lifted the great stone out of its intricate mithril receptacle and gave it to an Arthadan knight standing nearby and said, "Take this and go...escape by any means..." Surprised, the knight took the sphere and stared at it for a second. The Seer grabbed him violently. "I said GO NOW!!!" With that the knight took three squires and passed though the West Door. The Seer hurriedly put a hex on the door to seal it.

With a crash, the East Door fell open. A bloody knight stumbled through, wounded with a dozen arrows. His helmet smashed to the ground as he uttered his final words, "Flee... we are doomed..." As he breathed his last, the Seer could see a huge, grotesque figure pass through the East Door. A massive, bloated creature it was, draped in heavy chainmail and wielding a spiked club. At the troll's belt dangled several human skulls including the head of Ostoher.  
  
The Seer collapsed in horror. "Rogrog..." The club came down. Blood covered the walls.  
  
**THARBAD – Urui 1409  
**  
The crystal goblet caught the firelight, and dispersed it to the corners of the room, as Ciramir son of Eärendur, the Gondorian legate twirled it in his hand. It was finely made, a work of art like everything that came from the renowned glassworks at Fornost Erain in Arthedain. Goblets like this graced the tables of the Shipwrights of Mithlond, the Queen's board in Fornost, and the rough camp-table of King Ostoher on the Downs, where the Cardolanian army camped this night, ever vigilant against further attacks by the terrible host of Angmar.  
  
Such a simple pleasure, dining with finely crafted tableware. It was almost funny in a way, that when the King went north to meet the onslaught of the Witch-King's realm on the borders of Cardolan, special provisions, placesettings, linen napkins, and his own crystal goblet went north with him. Reports (such as actually reached the city of Tharbad; leagues to the south) indicated that there had already been desperate fighting in the devastated area of Bree-land where the North Highway crossed the East-West road. Still, in the way in which Cardolan and Arthedain had become accustomed to constant war, both with the Witch-King's realm and each other, made Ciramir wonder to himself whether the men of the North were even aware of the full repercussions of their victory or defeat. Neither had yet succumbed to Angmar like their sister kingdom, Rhudaur, which was no more than a puppet state; when the dark realm attacked, they had always dropped their differences and marched together to oppose it. But in the absence of that threat, the two northern realms always fell to bickering, drawing swords on one another over some tiny stretch of land. Even during the reigns of the current kings, Ostoher and Arveleg, peacemakers both, the tension and threat of dissension was omnipresent.  
  
Ciramir was no one's fool. He knew of the worm-tongued dissemblers who came in fair guises to the courts of Arthedain and Cardolan, just as they had come to the King's House in Rhudaur. He knew who they served, and he knew how their efforts made the Witch-King ever more effective. They were in Minas Anor as well, perhaps hoping to turn brother against brother in far off Gondor.  
  
The light burgundy color of the goblet tinted the legate's hand the color of blood, as he held it and gazed into its depths. A sudden chill breeze ruffled the curtains.  
  
Ciramir stood, goblet in hand, and walked to the window to close it. He looked out across the sprawl of Tharbad, and northward at the wide stone highway that stretched, dimly moonlit, into the distance. Somewhere, beyond the shadowy hill barely discernible near the horizon, the armies of Cardolan and Arthedain waited for another assault by the Witch-King's army.  
  
Suddenly, he noticed a rider moving along the highway at great speed, the half shrouded moon dimly reflected in the horse's accoutrements and the mail of the rider, visible as his cloak swept back in the wind.  
  
A rider? At this hour? Ciramir thought  
  
The legate forgot about the breeze that had chilled him, and set the goblet on the window-ledge. His attention was completely on the swift moving rider approaching the North Gate of the city. It was clear that the horseman was no ordinary traveler, for he passed quickly through the refugee settlements across the river. The gate was opened for him at once; without slowing, he spurred his steed along the avenue toward the Royal House. The rumors flew thick and fast in the rider's wake. While Ciramir stood at the window, a clerk reported the news to him, even as it was being echoed in the street below: the army was destroyed, the King and his sons had perished and there were not even enough Cardolanian soldiers to bury them. Arthedanians and Lindon elves had placed Ostoher in his barrow. The Witch- King had been defeated, but at a terrible cost: Tharbad, already crammed with refugees, would soon be flooded with thousands more. And if any part of the Witch-King's army had survived intact, it would soon come to the gates of the city.  
  
And if not? Then there would be war as well. Arthedain would try to capitalize, if it could, on the terrible destruction wrought on Cardolan, which now had no king. And, if rumors were to be trusted, had only a sixteen-year-old girl as an heir.  
  
Odd, Ciramir thought to himself, for it to be so chill in autumn.  
  
Though a watcher by nature, Ciramir knew that now was the time to act, and if there was any substance to what he had heard, he had to act quickly. Turning away from the window, he strode toward the door of his study. A corner of his robe caught the crystal goblet as he walked across the room, and pulled it along. It hung, teetering on the edge of the sill for a long moment, and then crashed to the stone floor, shattering beyond recognition or recovery.


	2. The Return of the Healer

Update of 11 SEP 05 - Thanks Thug. I originally wrote this in high school, but I'm trying to bring it along.

**Chapter 2**

THE ROAD TO THARBAD – Ivanneth 1409

Only the occasional howl of a lone wolf broke the silence of the night as a broken-down wagon creaked along the North Road. The driver, cloaked in dirty gray, turned around and said quietly, "We must stop. The horses are tired."

From the inside of the wagon a woman answered, "No, we must reach Tharbad by midnight." The driver shrugged and shook the reins, pushing the two horses onward.

The driver, Valandil, was a common soldier in the Army of Cardolan. His years of service brought him the rank of sergeant just prior to the war. He had seen action against both Arthedain and Rhudaur, but nothing prepared him for the slaughter he had just experienced. Having had his entire unit wiped out, the only thing left for him was to drive a wagon load of wounded back home. The weight of his experiences reflected in his haggard expression. He was clothed only in his torn and stained tunic and breeches covered with a suit of rusting chainmail. A week of facial growth made the usually clean-shaven man look like a Dunnish barbarian. After sixteen hours of travel, he was as exhausted as the horses and his vision began to blur.

As Valandil began to nod off, the woman placed her hand on his shoulder, rousing him. She handed him a cup of hot broth. The aroma filled his nostrils, reviving him. He thanked her and drank hardily from the cup. The woman, Firiel Halatani, was a healer. She was kin to the noble house of Tinare and the elves of Lindon, who had trained her in the healing arts. King Ostoher had ordered her to accompany the army to the Barrow Downs to tend he and his sons. Although she could save neither King nor princes, her talents nonetheless healed many worthy knights on that dark day. Tending to the wounded, she had not slept in days and now her blonde hair hung matted on her head and her eyes held the weight of doom.

Firiel huddled over one of the injured men in the wagon and gently gave him some of the broth. The man drank hungrily for several moments and then fell unconscious again. He was covered in blood soaked bandages and it was obvious that his wounds were grievous. Though stained, his surcoat could still be recognized, marking him as a member of the noble house of Tyrn Gorthad. His family bore the brunt of the fighting on the Downs as those were their ancestral lands. Few, if any, now could claim kinship with that House. Firiel had brought him back from the brink of death, but even now she remained doubtful.

At the rear of the wagon, beyond several more sleeping bodies, a man sat huddled, honing his double-bladed axe. Still clad in chainmail he appeared every bit the warrior ready for the battle. Long brown hair hung in disarray about his weathered face and his beard was tangled into the links of his armor. The man's name was Mercatur, a mixed breed mercenary from Rhudaur who fought only for gold. At one time he had taken arms against every kingdom in the North and took no permanent loyalties. The only reason he fought for Cardolan was the fact that they promised to pay him 13 more silver pieces than Angmar was willing to give him, and now he was on his way back to collect. The muscular Mercartur placed his fine axe back in its sheath and then cocked his crossbow. When Firiel gave him a curious glance, he smiled back, "one can never be too cautious."

"I see the lights of Tharbad ahead," called Valandil. This would mean that they were within a few miles of the city and could reach the gates within an hour. As the wagon drew on, the soldier was troubled by the presence of dozens of makeshift shacks to either side of the road. These hovels were definitely not here when the grand army of Cardolan marched forth four months ago. The stench was overpowering and Valandil could see masses of starving people moving about. Suddenly, Valandil reined in the horses. A tree trunk was blocking their path.

"Drop the reins man, unless you wish to die!" a voice yelled out from the side of the road. Two blond northmen stepped out onto the road in front of the log. One had a short bow drawn on Valandil, who quickly looked around and saw several others nearby, all armed and cloaked in dirty brown. He released the reins and raised his hands. The man with the bow grinned and said to the other, "Eudail, tie him up."

The shorter man drew a dagger and scrambled up the wagon, "No problem Nial."

Without warning, a crossbow bolt sunk into Nial's chest with such force it flung him back. He crashed on the ground and did not move. Valandil sprung into action. Drawing his broadsword, he slashed Eudail across the throat. The stunned northman spat blood and then collapsed backward off the wagon. Then, a stocky, brown haired boy leapt up on the back of the wagon brandishing a short sword. He cried, "You bastards killed Nial and Eudail. I'll cut your throats." With this, he turned toward Firiel and her patients.

Before he could move, Mercatur's axe spit his head in two. The rest of the robbers fled.

After rifling the body for gold, Mercatur rolled the dead adolescent out of the back of the moving wagon. He then started counting the bronze and copper coins. Firiel looked at him with disgust, "Is that all you care about...money? You just killed that boy...have you no feelings?"

The mercenary sneered, "Blondie, you'd be dead or worse if I didn't take him. Besides, think of it as his final gift...a donation to the Mercatur fund."

Irritated, Valandil looked back, "Hey, mercenary, don't talk to the lady like that!"

Bristling at the command, the brawny mercenary drew his axe, "What are you gonna do about it, boy?"

At this Firiel stepped in, raising her hand. She took Mercatur's weapon arm and held it, "I'm sorry...I started it. I'm just tired...we're all tired...please sit down." The mercenary sat and said nothing further.

Creaking along in their wagon, they reached the Annon Forn or North Gate just before midnight and after displaying their credentials, they continued on to the South Bank of the city. The city of Tharbad was large by most standards and was arranged in three sections: A North Bank on the north side of the Gwathlo River, a central island in the middle of the river, and the South Bank. The wagon creeped through the deserted Menetar street, the main road through Tharbad, then over the Iant Formen and the Iant Harnen, the North and South Bridges, spanning the river. Shortly before one o'clock in the morning the wagon rolled up to the familiar Houses of Healing, Firiel's home. Beyond tired, Valandil staggered to the door of the three story building and pounded his fist. Several sleepy attendants emerged minutes later.

"Can't you see the Lady has returned!" spoke Valandil sternly. The attendants gave a look of surprise and immediately rushed to the wagon. They gently carried the wounded into the house and then returned to assist Firiel herself inside. Mercatur gathered the trophies of war from the bottom of the wagon and then followed them in. He sunk the blade of his axe into the back of an expensive wooden chair and then lay down on the floor. Sleep took him in seconds. Two of the attendants escorted Firiel to the Master Healer's chamber and opened the door.

She stepped inside and sadly said, "leave me." The attendants bowed and shut the door


	3. The Iron Chancellor

**Chapter 3**

It had been two days since the rider had brought news of the death of King Ostoher. Initially, panic had gripped the ancient Council of the Sceptre, the administrative body that aided the King in his rule. Chancellor Nimhir, head of the Council, decided that immediate action needed to be taken. He convened an emergency meeting to determine the fate of the Kingdom. Nimhir, though not a warrior, had advanced rapidly in the service of the King through dedicated, competent service. He succeeded his father, Vinyarion, as the Steward of the Royal Estate of Thalion followed by a post as an advisor to the King in 1398. In 1403 he became a full member of the Council and became its leader just prior to the war. His rise had not been without cost as he earned the enmity of many jealous rivals.

A fortnight later, the Council convened at the Bar Aran, or the King's House in Tharbad, upon the central island. In attendance were: Nimhir; Minastan, the Mayor of Tharbad; aged Captain Tardegil; Captain Guilrod of the Garrison; Captain Asgon of the Navy; Hir (Baron) Duin Tinare; Hir Celeph Calantir; and Hir Mablung Girithlin.

"Gentlemen and nobles of Cardolan, after long thought and consultation with the seers, I have decided to ask your support in declaring myself Regent of Cardolan, acting in the name of the sole heir to the Royal House until she reaches majority," stated the tall, dignified Nimhir, dressed regally in green and yellow. His fine black hair was streaked with gray as was his finely waxed goatee. He slowly surveyed the room, looking for responses.

The scarred, grizzled Tardegil sleepily rubbed his eyes.

Nimhir continued, stroking his greying goatee, "I know our esteemed council members: Hir Ethir Gwathlo, Hir Eredoriath, Hir Feotar, and Hir Tyrn Gorthad have all been laid to rest, but we must go on without them and do what is right for all seven Hirdoms. Before the transfer of power can be complete the decision must go to a vote. You gentlemen must decide. I beseech you however, to understand that this is for the good of the Kingdom. Failure to elect a unified government will only invite yet another civil war...or worse."

Hir Girithlin, a burly middle aged warrior, rose and said, "Aye, we do need to be united... however, what we need is one with great battle experience. No offense Nimhir, but Cardolan needs a leader not a bureaucrat. As a direct descendent of the great noble house of Eldanar and closest relative to the Royal Family, it is I who should become regent. Besides, I am the only one of us who was at Tyrn Gorthad when Rogrog slew the King. My expertise with battling Angmar makes me the natural choice." He swung his ermine cape back over his massive shoulders as he returned to his seat. Girithlin's lands were large and wealthy and he had an ambition to match them. His chubby face and thick neck attached to his barrel chest spoke of his physical strength. Quietly, Nimhir fumed at Girithlin's disrespect. There had been bad blood between them for years.

Watching the duel of wills, the handsome, raven-haired Hir Tinare leaned over to the ancient Hir Calantir and whispered, "So this is Mablung's bid for the throne... I hear he's also thinking of having his pimply faced son, Falathar court the Princess. What a scoundrel."

The gnarled Calantir smiled and nodded.

Suddenly, breaking eye contact with Hir Girithlin, Chancellor Nimhir turned to the Council and spoke, "Well, it is agreed that we need a Regent. Just who will be the Regent is the question. We will write our secret ballots to determine the vote." The men quickly scrawled their votes with quill pens and folded the ballots. A scribe was summoned to count the votes.

After a minute, the scribe stated loudly, "Chancellor Nimhir is elected the Regent of Cardolan." Upon hearing the result, Hir Girithlin struck the table and stormed out of the Hall.

Hir Tinare patted Calantir on the back, "Good job Celeph, I knew I could count on you. I won't forget this."

The ancient Calantir smiled blankly in return.

Though exultant in his recent victory, Chancellor Nimhir was still very worried over Hir Girithlin, whose battle experience and seasoned troops could prove a formidable foe. Given Cardolan's long history of civil wars, the Baron's every action needed to be scrutinized for the moment. As Nimhir was returning to his chambers, his attention was diverted by the presence of the skinny old nursemaid, Anariel, standing in the hall. "Your Grace, please come. The Princess is refusing to leave her room again. She needs to eat. She's just wasting away in there!" she pleaded, beckoning him to come to the door of the Royal Chamber.

Nimhir furrowed his brow. Ever since the news of her father and brothers deaths, she had gone into a deep depression, often refusing to eat or socialize.

The Chancellor strode in front of the maid, stopping before the rich mahogany doors. Tapping gently, he called, "Your Highness, please come out for 'Uncle' Nimhir. How will you ever rule if you do not eat? Besides, I have wonderful news for you."

The door swung open revealing a grave young woman with gray eyes and raven hair. Her gown was black as night, which heightened her pale features. Her beauty was something to which few could rival. Her large gray eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips could capture many a brave knight. Slowly, Princess Nirnadel managed a forced smile for her favorite 'Uncle' and then stepped forward to give him a hug. With teary eyes, she looked up at him and asked, "So, Uncle, what is the wonderful news?"

The Chancellor, observant and caring as usual toward the Princess decided to set aside his victory, "It is not that important. What is important is that we spend some time together now." So the two, with the nursemaid in tow, walked to the Royal Gardens to talk about philosophy and science, one of Nirnadel's favorite activities in happier times.

The magnificent Royal Gardens had become overgrown as they had not been tended since the death of Ostoher. Still, they provided the comforting familiarity that Nirnadel had grown up with. After several hours of intense conversation, the Princess smoothly changed the subject, "Uncle, the Kingdom is in ruins. What can We do to help?"

Nimhir was taken aback; the Princess would never be expected to assist in any way until she took the throne. "Your Highness, the best thing you could do for the Kingdom is to keep yourself healthy. I will have a feast sent to your room and I expect that it will be entirely eaten. Do I make myself clear young lady?"

Nirnadel pondered a moment in silence. Suddenly she recalled seeing a beggar through the palace window. He was ragged and starving, pleading for food. She was struck by an idea. "Of course, uncle. The plate will be clean." With a grin, she kissed Nimhir on the cheek and ran off. The Chancellor mused with satisfaction that his charm had dispelled the Princess' sadness. He resolved to commission a tiara for the day in which she would be coronated.


	4. The Heavy Hand of Justice

**Chapter 4**

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

Firiel rolled sluggishly out of bed. She was still clothed in the tattered tunic and breeches that she had worn during the battle weeks ago. Still dazed, she noticed several sheepish attendants standing nearby.

One stepped forward and spoke, "Lady, we've drawn a bath for you and laid out new clothes."

Firiel blinked and then allowed herself to be led to the steaming tub.

Meanwhile, Valandil, who had already bathed and shaved, looked about with concern as the ward attendants scurried about the vastly overcrowded hospital. Designed to hold a maximum of one hundred and fifty, the wards were already packing three times as many patients. Conditions were awful: huge roaches scurried about and blood pooled on the floor. Moans and shrieks could be heard everywhere.

Nearby, Mercatur was tossing a dagger into an elegant wooden table. The mercenary stood up and declared, "I'm restless. I'm going out." With that he slung his axe and left the house. Mercatur felt lost during peacetime, it made him edgy and irritable. He had spent the morning braiding his brown hair and beard to appear even more barbaric. Now he was in a bad mood and someone was going to pay for it.

Wandering the streets of Tharbad, Mercatur was accosted by a vile stench floating on the easterly wind. He quickly recalled an old Rhudauran saying, "When the smell is really bad, there's trouble to be had." Grinning broadly, he turned in that direction. Soon, he found himself on the docks. Fishing boats had been coming in all morning and some of the catch had begun to spoil. Mercatur spied a tavern nearby, packed with sailors. The weathered wooden sign read, 'Sign of the Orc's Head'. Undoing the leather retaining thongs on his scabbards he said, "This is the place for me."

xoxoxoxoxoxo

Back at the Houses of Healing, Firiel began to feel like her old self again after the pungent herb bath. It had seemed like years since she had been the Lady of the House. It was time to resume that role, she thought to herself as she combed her short blonde hair. She then dressed in a plain brown robe, the attire of a healer, and then left the room. Firiel was totally unprepared for the den of misery that greeted her as she stepped out into the ward. Patients lay in the hall, blocking the passageway. The wars were over, but the battle was just beginning. Regaining her composure, she flung on her brown cloak and knelt down at the first patient in the hall, calling to a young, female attendant, "Kaile, I need hot water, two doses of Arlan leaf, and my sack. Go quickly." Firiel immersed herself in her work, tending to the patients one by one until the daylight had run out.

The attendants, covered in perspiration, smiled quietly to one another...The Healer had indeed returned.

By dusk, Firiel slumped against the corridor wall, exhausted. By the look of the House and the condition of the patients, things would get worse before they got better. Several of the sick were showing signs of the plague: high fever; swollen glands; ravenous thirst. This worried her: If the plague were to get loose in the city, thousands could die. It could spell the end for the entire Kingdom.

Just then, Kaile roused her. "Firiel, we're nearly out of food. The last shipment was commandeered by the Army. I'm afraid we won't be able to feed everyone."

Firiel just nodded and replied quietly, "Do what you can. Feed the weakest first." The Healer knew her staff were very competent, but they couldn't function on their own and there were only four of them. They were completely overwhelmed.

Kaile and the other three gathered the meager loaves of bread and pots of soup. Valandil lit a fire in the hearth to begin preparing the meal. It was going to be a long, hungry night.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Kaile wrapped herself in a stained white cloak and then opened the door. There were two women standing there, one old and one young, both pulling a cart. The younger one was clad in a gray dress with a green cloak. Her eyes were iron gray and her raven hair was tied in a ponytail. She stepped inside and spoke, "We are the humble daughter of a food merchant who wishes to donate meals for the sick and injured. Please accept our gift and our help."

Firiel nodded and the attendants ran outside to bring in the cart. It was loaded with game, loaves of bread, meats, and cheeses. The aroma was so wonderful that Firiel nearly passed out. The two visitors immediately began passing out plates and cups to staff and patient alike. Valandil jumped in to help and soon all were well fed.

When the unexpected feast had been consumed, all present gave thanks to the mysterious benefactors. Soon, questions were asked concerning the origin of the two women. Firiel, finding new strength, spoke out, "We are most grateful for your timely charity. May I ask who your family is so that we may send a token of thanks?"

The young woman appeared nervous and avoided Firiel's gaze. She replied nervously, "We are... Nel, and this is our companion... Anna. Our family desires no token of gratitude. The knowledge of our having made a difference is enough." With that the young woman rose and put on her coat. Turning to the crowd she spoke again, "We must return home now before nightfall, but please expect us again in the future... good evening."

Then, just as suddenly as they had come, they departed. Kaile and the rest of the staff murmured quietly in curiosity, venturing several guesses about the identity of the pair. Valandil was merely happy to have a full stomach. He had lost nearly twenty pounds since the war and was beginning to look gaunt. Firiel was, however, still worried. Always realistic, she knew that this source of food was unreliable and that money would be needed to ensure a steady stream of supplies.

THE SIGN OF THE ORC'S HEAD

"Say it! The King of Gondor is a custard pastry and your mother is a hamster!" Mercatur yelled as he ran a Gondorian sailor's head through a bar table. The sailor fell over with a thud, blood running down his forehead. Several other men lay unconscious nearby in pools of spilt beer and ale. The more cautious patrons hid behind the bar and under tables. The mercenary had been caught cheating in 'bones', a popular card game. Furious at having been confronted, he proceeded to lose his temper and trash the bar and any who got in his way. When the dust had settled, Mercatur looked at the damage he had wrought and scratched his bearded chin. He stooped over a prone sailor and pulled out a wallet which he threw at the obese proprietress, Bereth the Fat. As the coins struck her head, he laughed out loud, "For your trouble." With that he took his 'winnings' and left. Enough fun for one night he thought.

THE STREETS OF THARBAD

Puffing heavily, Anariel ran to keep up with the Princess as she skipped down the corridor to her chamber. "Your Highness, I cannot believe you talked me into helping you... Oh, my... Nimhir will be furious... You could catch a cold... We could have been robbed..." Anariel wailed pitifully.

Turning suddenly, the still smiling Nirnadel raised her finger, silencing the maidservant. "We were not robbed, We did not catch a cold, and Nimhir will never know because we will not tell him."

Anariel "Hrmpf'd" quietly to herself, but noticed Nirnadel munching a biscuit as she skipped along. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing after all.

THE KING'S HOUSE

In front of the delicately carved doors to Nirnadel's chambers, two soldiers sat playing cards. These men were part of the Royal Body Guard and had been left behind to watch the Princess during the war. Only eight were left out of what had once been a proud force to be reckoned with. Along with the highly touted regiment called the Raggers they were the most feared warriors in the land. The eight warriors had become despondent over news of the destruction of their unit and the death of their King. Feeling that they had been left behind to guard an insignificant little brat while their brothers died as warriors added to the already low morale of the guards. Unfortunately, they had not yet realized that they had been spared for another purpose.

Nirnadel stood over the two guards for several moments before they noticed. When they realized who she was they dropped their cards clumsily and leapt up to attention. One of the guards blurted out, "Your Highness, forgive us...we did not see you...er...how did you get out of your room, Your Highness?"

Nirnadel gave her meanest look. "Baranor, you and your men have grown soft. You call yourselves Royal Body Guards? My father would laugh." With that she kicked over their cards, entered her chamber, and slammed the door behind her. She stood next to the door for a moment to listen to the quiet cursing of the guards. They didn't hide the fact that they disliked her and she didn't hide the fact that she enjoyed tormenting them.

She snickered to herself and walked over to the empty iron platters that held food only a few hours ago. "Uncle will be so pleased," she said out loud as she leapt into bed.

THE COURTHOUSE – Narbeleth 1409

As Minister of Justice, Eärdil's job was becoming increasingly unmanageable as the influx of refugees grew daily. His staff of 20 constables, while adequate prior to the war, was now in desperate straits. Petty theft and minor property damage had now become murder, smuggling, slavery, and banditry in three short months. Vicious crimes were now becoming a daily occurrence. Eärdil was furious to hear rumors that some of his staff had begun to accept bribes. If so, he thought, they would wish they had never been born. On the streets, however, fear gripped the city. The face of Tharbad was changing.

_The law needs to be enforced if the city is to survive_, reasoned Eärdil, who was a tall, pure-blooded Dunadan. He had been the King's Minister for 16 years and had risen to this rank through unfailing and incorruptible service. He had expected no less from his constables for so long. Sitting behind his massive teak desk, he reviewed yet another crime report. This one was concerning a food riot in the shanty town. Three constables arrived at the scene of the riot and elected not to intervene. At first Eärdil was outraged and moved to summon the three constables, but he then realized that his men were ill equipped and badly outnumbered. They would just have been injured or worse, and Eärdil could not afford to lose even a single man. Minastan, the Mayor, promised Eärdil more men, but that was a month ago and no one had yet arrived. Eärdil refused to deputize any citizens as he did not want his force diluted by amateurs. Pondering the problem, Eärdil realized four things: this year's crop had been decimated by the war, food prices were skyrocketing, winter was just around the corner, and that more riots were inevitable.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

When dawn broke, new patients were huddled at the door of the Houses of Healing. Firiel rushed to open the door. Kaile and Valandil carried in the sick. Conversing with some of the patients in the hall, Firiel developed a worried expression. She pulled Kaile aside and said softly, "It's the plague, I'm sure of it." Kaile nodded in understanding. Firiel continued, "Tell no one yet or there will be a panic. Take these bags and distribute the medicine. It'll slow the progress of the disease." The Healer took a dozen silk bags from her cabinet and handed them to Kaile. The young attendant rushed quickly to the wards to administer the medicine.

Firiel had noticed that the supplies in the healing cabinet were getting very low. Journeying to the country side to gather herbs and medicines was out of the question with the Kingdom in unrest. With the absence of a highway patrol, wolves and bandits roamed free over the hills. Besides, Firiel could never leave her patients long enough to make the search worthwhile. She would have to go to the Alchemist for supplies. Right now, gold was cheaper than time.

Valandil approached. "Firiel, you need rest. You've not slept in two days. Except for rare visits by the two women, you don't eat. When were they last here? Three days ago I think. How will you be a healer if you become a patient?"

Eyes bleary and weak from fatigue and hunger, Firiel nodded slowly. "Yes, but I have one more thing to do. I must go to the Alchemist." It pained Valandil to see her in this state. He had become fond of her since they met in the battle of Tyrn Gorthad.

Firiel retrieved two large sacks of gold coins from her drawer and slung them over her shoulder. Without another thought she walked out of the house and on to the Rath Ohtari, or Warrior's road. Valandil moved to join her, but she turned back and said, "No, I'll be right back. Wait here." With that she continued down the road. Valandil said nothing and returned to his room to brood.

The Alchemist's establishment was clear across the south side of town heading east. It was still morning and traffic slowed movement on the road to a crawl. Patiently, Firiel carried the heavy sacks through the street. After half an hour of slow walking with the heavy coins, she began to tire quickly. She sat down on a sidewalk and set her sacks beside her.

She thought to herself, _I only need a minute to rest. I'll be there shortly._ Suddenly someone grabbed her.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

At the Houses of Healing, Kaile found Valandil brooding over a cup of soup in the kitchen. He was wearing a soft robe, but had his weapon tucked in his belt. Valandil was a muscular warrior and she found him quite attractive. The brown-haired girl sidled up to him and placing her hand on his shoulder she asked in a soft voice, "What's wrong Valandil?"

The tall soldier took a sip from his cup and then set it down. "It's Firiel... I'm worried. She doesn't sleep or eat. Her whole life is wrapped up in the House of Healing."

Kaile nodded. "I'm worried too. She gave me a job when I had nothing and now we can't help her." The young attendant poured herself a cup of the hot soup.

Valandil replied blankly, "She's a remarkable woman."

Kaile offered Valandil a chair which he accepted. Sitting down, he drank the rest of the soup in his cup. Slowly, she moved around behind Valandil and began massaging his neck. He inhaled the sweet perfume she had worn for the occasion. Kaile looked around a few times and then asked, "By the way, where is Firiel?" hoping she would be away on the ward for a while.

Valandil shrugged. "She went to the Alchemist's to buy supplies. She said she'd be right back."

Kaile stepped back as if struck. She blinked and then screamed, "You… you let her go alone? You idiot, she'll never make it!" Kaile shoved Valandil out of the way and frantically searched for a kitchen knife. She seized a meat cleaver from a drawer and then bolted for the door. Confused, Valandil sprinted after her. Unbeknownst to Valandil, in his absence the streets of Tharbad had become a dangerous place.

THE STREETS OF THARBAD

A stocky Dunnish thug with a scraggly beard hauled Firiel up by her golden hair while a dirty teen scooped up the sacks of gold. Firiel screamed, "Let me go! Help!" She was awestruck that someone would attack her in the middle of the street in broad daylight. What was gong on? She flailed and kicked, but the thug gripped her tightly around the neck with his filthy hands.

"No one's going to help you, missy. The constables are in our pocket." Drawing his hand axe, he looked around and continued, yelling, "And innocent bystanders don't want to get hurt!" He was right. Passersby were giving them a wide berth, just going about their business. Even a City Constable stood by and watched helplessly.

Firiel shrieked, "You cowards! What's happened to our city?"

The thug chuckled evilly and dragged the screaming Healer around a corner. In a gruff voice he told the teen, "Boy, take the sacks away. I'll rejoin you later." The dirty boy stood motionless for a moment. Striking the boy on the head the thug yelled, "I said go you punk, or I'll beat you senseless!" With that the teen ran off with the gold flinging two coins to the Constable as he passed.

Firiel cried out, "NO, that money is to help the sick..."

The thug threw her against the wall and she staggered under the impact. Again he chuckled. "Don't worry, we'll put it to good use." With that he unbuckled his belt.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Near panic, Kaile began grabbing people at random and asking if they had seen the Healer. None responded positively until she spotted a constable waving people on past a side street. With Valandil in trail she forcefully grabbed the constable, "Have you seen a blonde woman with two sacks on this street?" The constable looked about and then pointed around the corner. Kaile got a sick feeling in her stomach and sprinted in that direction. The constable then slipped into the crowd and disappeared.

Kaile let out a terrible yell when she saw Firiel struggling with the Dunnish thug. The man turned as she rushed at him and struck her full in the face with his gloved fist. Dropping her cleaver, Kaile collapsed to the ground.

Snickering, the thug turned back to Firiel and said, "Looks like I'll have seconds today." He moved toward Firiel again, but was interrupted by another voice. He turned to see Valandil standing there, sword drawn. The thug laughed again. "Boy, you'd better leave now while you still have your head 'cause I'll cut it off when I'm done with you."

Without responding, Valandil leapt forward with an overhead strike. The thug drew his cutlass and stepped back parrying. Valandil continued the assault driving the thug back to the wall. Thrusting forward, he sliced the thug across the nose.

The thug snarled and hollered, "You worthless rat, I'll make you eat your bowels!" With that, Valandil beat the thug's blade downward and with his upstroke slashed the man deep in his side. The thug gurgled blood and fell against the wall. Valandil then pierced him through the heart. Kaile, who had begun to stir, wiped the blood from her nose and mouth. She saw the thug dying on the ground and rage took her. She leapt upon his broken body and began tearing at his face. Valandil ran to Firiel.

She grabbed him, saying weakly, "The gold... you must get the gold..." and pointed in the direction that the youth had run. Valandil hesitated, not wanting to leave the women alone, but Firiel's insistence forced him on.

As he sprinted down the alley he could hear Firiel sobbing, "It's all my fault..."

Valandil bashed in doors and threw trash cans over in his rage as he searched for the boy, but after fifteen minutes he realized the gold would never be seen again. Three hundred gold crowns were now in the hands of thieves and scum, never to be spent on medicine. Bellowing in anger Valandil sunk his bloodied blade into a wooden fence. With a push he yanked the sword out and returned to the alley. Kaile sat there cradling Firiel who was unconscious.

Valandil sat next to the broken corpse and said in a monotone, "I couldn't find him."

Kaile turned on him. "This is all your fault! This never would have happened if you had gone with her! You bastard!"

Guilt wracked Valandil, thinking her to be right. Kaile rose and with great difficulty slung Firiel over her shoulder. Seething, she spat at Valandil, "We're going home. You're no longer welcome." With that she began carrying Firiel home as she had with many patients before.

Valandil sat unmoving for some time before anyone approached him. A large figure clad in chainmail sat on the other side of the corpse. "Nice work, soldier boy," the figure said. It was Mercatur. The mercenary held up the dead thug. Examining the scratch wounds on the body and the face he commented, "Maybe you had a little help."

Valandil replied quietly, "He was already dead."

Mercatur threw the body back down. "Oh, well my original comment stands then."

Suddenly, the soldier stood up and shouted, "This is an outrage. A crime like this committed in broad daylight. I'm going to the Minister himself!" With that, Valandil stormed out of the alley.

Before the soldier could depart, Mercatur drew his axe and picked up the corpse by its hair. Valandil turned. "What are you doing?"

The mercenary severed the thug's head with one stroke and commented, "Hey, there might be a reward you know. They can add it to the thirteen silver they owe me. Hey, you'll thank me later."

Valandil grunted in disgust and pressed on to the Tharbad Court and Prison.

THE CITY JAIL

The city jailer, Mardil, sat at his small desk picking his nose. He was a man of little learning and intellect, but he was immensely strong, as well as immensely fat. A veteran of the wars against Arthedain, it was said he threw a horse into the charge of Arthedan spearmen saving his commander. As a reward, he was given a post in the city with an increase in pay (It was the commander's favorite horse, and despite being grateful he wanted Mardil as far away as possible in the future). The jail itself was rapidly becoming full with many of the once empty cells now packed with three to four occupants apiece. The recently (relatively) peaceful prison was currently a den of noise, hollering, yelling, banging, and other ghastly sounds echoing down the halls. Fortunately, Mardil's hearing was also lacking and he was generally unbothered by the din.

The massive jailer's attention was currently drawn to two men being escorted to his desk by a guard. Mardil twirled the hair of his graying beard and without looking up, asked blandly, "What do you men want?"

Valandil blurted out, "We want to see the Minister of Justice... there's just been a robbery!"

The rotund man, looking disinterested, replied, "So."

Valandil's face began to redden. "What do you mean, so? A woman was just robbed on the street in the middle of the day in front of a crowd of people and you just say, 'so'... And another thing, your constable just stood around and did nothing! Look you... I want to see the Minister, now!"

Mardil rummaged around in his desk drawer for half a minute while Valandil stood there fuming. Several roaches scampered out of the drawer before he found what he was looking for. He pulled a sheet of paper out and began writing with a quill. "Okay, Mister Hothead, give me your statement."

Valandil grimaced. "I don't want to give you my statement, I want to talk to the Minister."

Mardil sighed. "The Minister is not here. He'll get your statement tomorrow."

Valandil was about to say something else when Mercatur pulled him back. "I'll handle this," he said with a grin. The armored mercenary moved up to the desk and very politely stated, "My friend wants to see the Minister. Maybe you can tell us where he is?"

Mardil shook his head. "Nope. You'll just have to wait until tomorrow."

With a mighty stroke, Mercatur hewed the desk in two with his axe. Mardil fell sprawling to the floor, ink spilling all over him. The growling mercenary stood over the jailer with his foot on the man's face. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear..." he said, tossing the wrapped head next to Mardil.

THE COURTHOUSE

A constable at the courthouse approached the two men and declared, "The Minister will see you now."

Rising, Valandil shook his head. "Mercenary, I don't understand. How can you go around cutting and smashing everything in sight? You just can't do these sorts of things?"

Mercatur laughed as he walked beside Valandil. "It gets results doesn't it... I mean, aren't we walking in to see the Minister?"

The soldier shrugged noncommittally. "I suppose you're right."

Mercatur patted him on the back. "You see, I grew up in Rhudaur, which as you well know, is nothing but a den of thieves, murderers, and vile creatures. Fine words and written parchment were not things that could keep you alive there." As he showed Valandil his axe, he said with conviction, "this gets results."

The constable opened the door and introduced the two to Eärdil, the Minister. He was dressed not in the stately gray and gold trimmed robes of office, but in a chainmail shirt more suited to a patrolman. Eärdil was slightly annoyed at his jailer for sending these two directly to him (Mardil neglected to inform him of the circumstances of the visit and Eärdil thought these men were just here to whine). Valandil thought that the Minister looked very ragged. He approached and bowed. "Sir, I know this is an unexpected intrusion, but something terrible has transpired. Please allow me to tell my story."

Though tired and busy, Eärdil nodded. "Very well, but what are your names first."

Valandil spoke, "I am Valandil, a sergeant in the Royal Army. This is Mercatur, a mercenary."

Eärdil listened patiently to Valandil's tale. Though often caught up in the procedure of law, he truly wanted to help people and protect the public. When the soldier spoke of the constable who had ignored Firiel's cries for help and accepted gold, Eärdil lost control.

Twenty minutes later all twenty constables were assembled in the courthouse. A decade and a half of law enforcement ethics and principles were rapidly coming apart for the Minister. He began to think about his studies in Criminal Justice at the University, which revolved around Ranek, the Minister back in 1217. In desperation, he hired undisciplined deputies, which included a powerful brute named Dardan of Tyrn Gorthad. During that year, Dardan lead a force, which terrorized criminals and exercised no mercy. By Yüle of 1217, crime was only a minor problem. Eärdil shuddered as he remembered both the lessons and the paintings of Dardan, which hung in Cardolan's esteemed Military Academy. Could he allow himself to throw away the lifetime of discipline and enlightenment which he stood for?

Eärdil spoke briefly with Valandil and then called the constables to attention. He strode up to the constable whom Valandil had pointed out and with one brutal stroke of his broad sword clove the man's head in two.

Horrified gasps issued from the gathered constables. Before anyone could speak, Eärdil held his bloody sword high and shouted, "This man failed in his duty to the citizens of Tharbad! His transgression was unforgivable! He stood by and ignored a woman attacked in the street while accepting gold from thieves. This will be the result of all future actions of a similar nature. Dismissed!" With that he wiped his blade on a cloth and stormed out of the courthouse.


	5. Arrows in the Dark

**Chapter 5**

Valandil and Mercatur sat quietly in the Minister's office waiting for him to return. The room was immaculate. A huge teak desk dominated the area, flanked by two large file cabinets. Awards and certificates adorned the walls along with Eärdil's diploma in Criminal Justice. Behind the desk were paintings of the Late King and the Chancellor.

The mercenary broke the silence first. "You know, this Minister's not half bad. I thought he was a softie at first...you know, one of those moral types, but what he did was right on track. Maybe he can give me the thirteen silver coins Cardolan owes me?"

Valandil blanched. "I can't believe you said that! That was cold-blooded murder. We have rules, which must be followed if our Kingdom is to survive. Otherwise we're no better than barbarians."

Mercatur shot right back. "Hey, kiddo... This was the scum who stood and watched blondie get whacked. So don't use your high and mighty crap with me."

Valandil was about to say something else when the door opened. Eärdil entered, dressed now in his gray robes of state. The Minister's jet black hair, which was just graying at the temples, was slicked back.

"Gentlemen, I have a proposal for you. I have had a recent change of heart regarding my policy of utilizing strangers. The Mayor has not given me the extra manpower, which was promised and our situation is growing more desperate. Therefore, I am looking for a small group of quick witted outsiders to help me track down the members of a smuggling ring which has been going on for months, perhaps years. At first it was mainly illegal herbs: Gort, Kirtir, Feduilas, the usual stuff. Now, with the food shortage, they're smuggling in certain hard to get foods, and getting fantastic prices. I strongly suspect that they had a hand in the attack on your friend. I want this ring broken!"

Valandil nodded and the Minister continued. "I want transients for two reasons: first, since we get a lot of people moving through Tharbad, the criminals won't suspect you; second, once they are caught, you will be gone, and there is little chance that there will be any retribution against you. I will pay you each one hundred gold pieces if you can provide me with concrete information about who's bringing the stuff in and how, who is distributing it, and if you will testify in Cardolan court. Somebody is getting a lot of Gort to the dealers in the Thieves Quarter; that's who I want, though I suppose you'll have to start by going through them. I am not concerned with the small time people. The food is somehow bought by the more wealthy citizens more directly, and I haven't been able to determine from whom. You two have done a good job so far. Can you help us?"

Without a second though, Mercatur stood up. "Okay, chiefee. I'm in, but you owe me an additional thirteen silver coins for services rendered during the war."

Eärdil smiled wanly, reached into his pockets and pulled forth two gold coins. He flicked them at Mercatur who caught them deftly. "Keep the change," Eärdil commented.

Mercatur smiled, pocketing the gold.

Valandil sighed in resignation. "Where do we start?"

After departing the Minister's Office, Valandil trudged along dejectedly while Mercatur read the scroll that the Minister had given them. "Hey, we're granted immunity from prosecution. Well... provided we don't kill any innocent bystanders. Hmmm, some suspects... Anvelig the Chandler... Liam the Grocer... Hoegwar... Let's check it out," Mercatur called out excitedly.

Valandil grunted weakly. Mercatur patted his companion on the shoulder. "Come on, you could give your share to Blondie. Maybe she could get some herbs with it."

Valandil stopped. "You're right!" The sergeant had been wrestling with his own guilt and self-doubt since the war, but now this gave him some purpose. Maybe he could redeem himself for his lost men, the lost gold, and for Firiel.

Traveling to the North Bank of the city, they began to stake out the establishment of Liam the Grocer. The man was a tall, blonde Northman, clean-shaven and well dressed. Business was booming for Liam as Valandil and Mercatur observed. Soon, day gave way to night and still patrons were entering the grocery. For a change of scenery, Mercatur decided to go around to the back and observe. He snuck down the back alley and situated himself between two overflowing garbage cans. Pulling his cloak over his head he quietly watched for signs of movement. He was not disappointed.

Shortly before midnight, a gang of youths approached the back door to the grocery. They knocked on the door in a strange pattern and soon it was opened by a short boy in tattered clothing. The leader of the gang spoke softly, "Michl, we need another sack."

Michl replied snidely, "So, where's your cash, Brogas?"

The leader snorted and passed Michl a sack of coins. The boy traded it for a green pouch and then shut the door. The six youths chuckled gleefully and headed back down the alley. Each boy reached inside the pouch and took a sample of the drug Michl had given them.

"Leave some for sale!" Brogas scolded one of his comrades as he pushed the younger boy against the wall. With their backs turned toward the door, the gang didn't notice the dark shape emerge from behind the pile of trash near the grocery.

Mercatur snuck forward, crossbow in one hand, axe in the other. "Six to one... I know it's not fair to them, but who said I was fair..."

Valandil was beginning to drift off to sleep when Mercatur roused him. The mercenary placed a bloody green pouch in his hand. Seeing the confusion on Valandil's face, Mercatur explained, "Some kids were doing illegal herbs behind the grocery. I told them about the error of their ways and they graciously gave me the pouch, promising never to break the law again."

Valandil opened the pouch and examined the numerous leaves, none of which he recognized. Mercatur described the scene in which Michl traded money for herbs and then continued to tell Valandil about each herb and its effects.

"I think we have something here. Let's take them in at sunrise," stated Valandil authoritatively.

Mercatur held him back. "Wait a minute, mate, these guys are just small fry. They've got to be getting their stuff from somewhere. I say we hang on a bit and keep watching. Maybe we can bag the whole lot. You see what I'm saying?"

The light came on in Valandil's eyes. "We're going to get these scumbags, Mercatur. I can feel it."

Several days of tedious surveillance passed while the pair scouted out the north side of town. One cold afternoon a riot broke out in the shantytown outside the North Gate. Garrison troops were dispatched to hold the gate and the sounds of anger grew louder. The rioters were dispersed after an hour and a tense silence filled the void. Leaving Mercatur to watch the Greengrocer, Valandil went north to find out what was going on. Soldiers were reopening the gate as the riot had been over now for about ten minutes. Seeing Valandil passing through the gate the Gate Sergeant called out, "Hey, you don't want to go out there just yet. That bastard Lamril is still lurking around. He'll be the death of this city yet."

Valandil looked back and replied, "Thanks sergeant, but I'll take my chances." The sergeant shrugged and went back to his duties.

Just outside the North Gate, Valandil entered the Trader's Bazaar. The area was now occupied by a platoon of Army troops outfitted in armor and carrying short swords. Merchants could be heard wailing over their damaged booths and goods. Continuing along the North Road, Valandil noticed a man lying in the mud. The poor man was covered in blood, which had soaked through his gaudy clothes. Valandil rushed over there and immediately inspected the man's wounds. He was still breathing, but had a deep gash in his head. Pouring some water on the man's face revived him somewhat. His eyes blinked and tried to focus.

"Uggh, where am I?" the man groaned.

Valandil gave the man his canteen, which he took and drained completely. "You've been injured in a riot. I'm going to take you to a healer."

The man smiled weakly. "I thank you, stranger. My name is Haedoriel the Bard..." At this, Haedoriel lapsed into delerium, mumbling something about Gil Galad, the Elven King of old.

THE KING'S HOUSE

"Blast, another riot! Captain Guilrod, what is being done about this? I thought you had the guard doubled. What is Eärdil doing? All he does is complain that he does not have enough men," Nimhir stormed, pacing about in the grand hall of the Royal House.

Guilrod fretted under Nimhir's rage. "Your Grace, the guard is undermanned and the number of refugees has increased tenfold. We just can't keep up." Guilrod had been friends with Eärdil for many years and felt the need to stick up for his comrade.

Nimhir shot the Captain a stern glare. "Excuses... all I hear are excuses... I'll bet it was that damn Lamril again... stirring up trouble. This is just the kind of thing that Girithlin needs. Call the council together. We need to do something about this now." The Captain bowed stiffly and withdrew.

THE FORTRESS OF BARAD GIRITHLIN

"Hah, ha, another riot! That incompetent Nimhir. He couldn't hold together a ball of clay with two hands, much less the Kingdom of Cardolan," bellowed the massive Mablung Girithlin.

Mablung's eldest son Falather nodded in agreement. "Yes, father, he couldn't hold together a ball of clay with two hands, much less the Kingdom of Cardolan."

Mablung leaned back into his giant, padded red chair chuckling softly to himself. He ran his hands through the piles of gold coins stacked on the table before him, gold accumulated through the vast production of the amber beds near the mouth of the River Baranduin. The amber provided the necessary wealth for the Girithlins to dominate the area and to construct the massive fortress of Barad Girithlin in Balost, the capitol of the Barony.

THE STREETS OF THARBAD

Carrying the unconscious bard, Valandil searched for Mercatur. The Mercenary was waiting near the home of the grocer. Together they ran to the Houses of Healing. They were greeted at the door by Jonu, a young Dunnish boy who had served Firiel for three years. He eyed them suspiciously, having heard the curses of Kaile, with whom he was infatuated with. The boy put his hand out, blocking the entry of the three. "You are no longer welcome here," he said venomously.

Valandil started to say something when Mercatur grabbed the youth by the jaw and applied a grip. Jonu collapsed to his knees with a shriek. The powerful mercenary released the boy and said politely, "Thank you for letting us in." Valandil looked down with shock at the tearful boy rubbing his jaw, but followed Mercatur into the house.

They encountered Kaile in the main hall and upon seeing them she began to develop the most vicious look. Valandil laid the bard on a table and with a point of his finger, he stopped Kaile in her tracks. Mercatur turned to him surprised, smiled, and then went about dressing Haedoriel's wounds. Kaile fled the room.

Firiel arrived a minute later, disheveled and exhausted from lack of sleep. She had been torturing herself over the lost money since the attack and was plagued by nightmares of the death of Ostoher and his sons. Silently, she strode past Valandil and began examining her patient. She crushed a pungent herb over his face and he began to stir. He inhaled deeply and coughed for a few seconds. Firiel caressed his face showing the care she had for all her patients. He looked up and grasped her hand. Smiling, she said to him, "You'll be all right. You need to stay here for a few days to recover. We'll notify your relatives and have any personal items brought to you that will increase your comfort."

The bard smiled weakly. "I am Haedoriel the Bard. Please go to my wife on Lindamel Street." Kaile left immediately to deliver the message.

With Haedorial stable and sleeping, Firiel slumped into the chair with the axe mark. She spoke not a word, but sank her head in her hands. Valandil went to her and sat in another chair as the mercenary smirked, picking up his axe. Sheathing it, he went off in search of food.

Valandil put his hand gently on Firiel's shoulder. "I'm responsible for the loss of the money. I've taken a job, which will pay me well. I'll return every copper that was lost. I swear!"

Firiel countered. "No, I alone am to blame. The money is gone. Valandil... take your earnings and leave this sorry city... you can make a new life for yourself in Gondor."

This comment struck Valandil as a blow. "What do you take me for? I am a warrior of Cardolan, sworn to defend her with my life if necessary. I could not... would not ever leave like a skulking coward! I offer to raise the money... I risk my life... and what..."

Firiel sat unemotional and unblinking as Valandil worked himself up into a greater rage, releasing the anger and despair that had been building up for months since the end of the war. Valandil finally lost control. "You want to sulk and cry and let the city fall into ruin... Fine! Don't be counting on me, I'm going back to my unit." With that he stormed out, vowing never to return.

**Chapter 6**

THE HOUSES OF HEALING – Hithui 1409

Hearing another knock on the door, Jonu moved cautiously to answer it. He opened the door just a crack to see who was outside. He was relieved to see Nel and Anna with another load of food. Kaile rushed to the door and with Jonu, they hauled the wagon in. Nel sat wiping sweat from her pale face, smiling broadly. Anna looked perturbed and nervous as usual. Kaile thanked the two profusely.

Nel held up her hand.

"Again, We require no thanks. It is enough for us to see that our people are recovering and growing stronger by the day."

Kaile sat down next to 'Nel' and began her story. "Nel, it's been a while since you were last here. We had a problem and some thief bastards stole our money for healing herbs... three hundred gold crowns... I don't know what we're going to do Nel. We're almost out of herbs and the number of cases is growing daily. We can't hold out."

Nel furrowed her dark brows. "Where did you plan to go to purchase herbs?" Kaile seemed a bit surprised at 'Nel's naiveté as everyone knew of the tight fisted alchemist Dirhavel.

"Why, we were going to Dirhavel the Alchemist," said Kaile cautiously.

"Of whom do you speak?"

"You know... the Alchemist... on Eril Street."

Suddenly, 'Nel' rose. "Speak no more, the hour grows late and we must depart. We take our leave of your home once again and bid you good health. Come Anna, we must return home."

'Anna' sighed. "It is about time Your Hi... I mean Nel... um... yes, we must take our leave."

When the two had left, Kaile pondered the curious conversation she had with 'Nel'. She thought to herself that 'Nel' must be from out of town as she was unfamiliar with the only Alchemist in Tharbad.

_Her mannerisms are so...odd, and that accent? I've heard it before, but where?_

Outside, tiny flakes of snow began to fall and the Princess and her maid pulled their thick cloaks closely around their bodies. Anariel shivered. "Thank Eru you have come to your senses. We will freeze out here if we do not leave now. I still have to draw your bath and put you to bed. Come let us depart."

Nirnadel held up her hand. "Anariel, our task is not yet complete this evening. We will journey to the residence of the Alchemist and we will purchase the herbs for the poor and suffering subjects of Cardolan."

Anariel was horrified. "Your Highness, you are mad. I am taking you back right this minute. You know, you are not so old that I cannot take you over my knee again."

Nirnadel stood her ground. "Maid, pray, We are not returning with you until We have completed the transaction. Only then will We return to Bar Aran. You will either accompany us or you will not."

Anariel backed down. Grimly, Nirnadel turned and began jogging down Eril street with her maid puffing along behind.

The pair arrived to find Dihavel's closed for the night. Above the entrance was a sign depicting a glowing Palantír. Nirnadel pounded on the solid door. Several well-constructed locks barred the door making it certain that all but the most skilled burglars could not penetrate. And for those, other dangers lay hidden inside. After a minute a deep booming voice rang out. "Go away, we are closed for the night. We open tomorrow at nine."

Nirnadel persisted. "Good Sir, We need your assistance tonight. It is an emergency!"

The door opened a crack and Nirnadel could see a tall, Dunadan man with a well trimmed beard and long hair. His bearing was quite noble and he reminded the Princess of Nimhir. The Alchemist spoke sternly, "Young woman, I am busy. Please return tomorrow."

Nirnadel produced a sack full of gold crowns, which got Dirhavel's attention. He unbarred the door and ushered the women in. He was amazed by the beauty of the young woman and instantly recognized her speech and mannerisms as one of the noble class. He had heard of corrupt and greedy families paying exorbitant sums for illicit drugs. Not that greed was bad in his opinion. He was generally a good man, but financing his experiment came above nearly all other considerations. After all, his experiment would eventually save all of Cardolan and drive the hated Witch King from the land.

Dirhavel took five mithril crowns in exchange for several sacks of healing herbs. Smiling, the two women left with their bounty. The Alchemist sat back, stacking his valuable coins. This would go a long way toward procuring materials for his experiment.

Rubbing his chin, Dirhavel thought, _How strange it is for this spoiled brat of some petty noble family to spend so much on healing herbs when there are so much drugs to be had. Wait… is she part of some scheme to sell my wares for a profit! Hah, maybe I am the fool._

Suddenly, a cloaked figure appeared behind him. He turned and the figure spoke in a soft female voice, "Dirhavel, do you know who that was?"

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Three scraggly youths hung out on a street corner boasting of their latest activities. Brug, the oldest, held the younger two in awe about how he cut one of the city constables during a drug run for one of the dock masters. His cruel tales were always embellished with amazing deeds and beautiful women who admired him from afar. Brug's story was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of two women carrying heavy bags. They looked rather helpless in the lightly falling snow and the dim illumination of the streetlamps. Brug struck one of the younger boys in the jaw, chuckling. "Let's go to work, boys." They began moving down the street, fanning out to surround their quarry. Brug drew a jagged, rusty dagger from his cloak and held it closely to his chest.

Nirnadel's elation suddenly turned to blood chilling panic when she finally noticed the three closing in on her and Anariel. They were now only about twenty feet away. She gasped seeing Brug's blade and Anariel's attention was gained.

The nursemaid shrieked, "See what you have done! We should never have come here!"

However, before Anariel could say another word, a gull-feathered arrow sank deep into Brug's eye followed by another, which buried itself into another boy's neck.

Both crumpled to the ground without so much as a gasp. The last boy hesitated, looking at his fallen comrades. This was his undoing as two more arrows struck him in the chest. He staggered back against the streetlamp as another arrow pierced his face. He sagged to the gutter as two more shafts sunk deep into his belly. The two women ran for all they were worth back to the House of Healing.

When the women were out of sight, two men stepped out of the shadows. They were cloaked in green with thick hoods over their heads. Both men slung steel composite bows over their shoulders and strode over to the three corpses. Silently, they removed all the arrows from the bodies and wiping them, placed the shafts back into their quivers. In a quiet monotone one spoke, "Go after the Princess, I'll clean up here." Without a word the other raced down the street. When the second man had gone, the first man easily hefted the three bodies over his shoulders and carried them off to the banks of the river.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Panting and wheezing, Nirnadel and Anariel collapsed on the doorstep of the Houses of Healing. Within a few seconds Jonu cautiously poked his head out the door. Seeing the friends of the Healer lying on the steps he rushed out to help. Once inside he slammed the door and locked it. The two women lay on the floor in a daze trying to catch their breath.

Coughing, Nirnadel produced the sack of herbs. "Jonu, take this to Firiel right away." The boy took the bag and sped away. Minutes later Firiel returned. A stern expression was on her face, but a glow that had been long absent was noticed by Jonu.

"My friends, you have risked your life to bring these medicines. This was my responsibility. I cannot allow you to be in danger when the task is mine and mine alone," Firiel stated, shaking her head.

Nirnadel stood, raising her hand. "Mistress Healer, you are wrong. We all must share in the responsibility if the land is to recover, and if anyone should be responsible for that it should be ourselves.

Alarmed, Anariel pulled on the Princess' sleeve. "We must go now, before you say any more."

Nirnadel nodded and without another word they departed the Houses of Healing.

When they had gone, Jonu gathered the herbs and took them to the infirmary. Kaile, who had been standing in the corner, approached Firiel. "There's something fishy about those two."

Firiel nodded gravely, but a slight smile touched her lips.


	6. Cleaning House

**Cleaning House**

THE ARGOND TOWER – Hithui 1409

The aged Hir Calantir sat in his massive chair unmoving while his family wept around him. His bent form held the weight of despair. He spoke quietly to himself, "My son, my son...Varek." His withered face and wispy white hair gave him the look of death. His eldest son Varek was slain when bandits burned his castle and sacked the village. Hir Duin Tinare and his son Ostomir were visiting to pay their respects.

Seeing Calantir's paralysis, Duin pulled his son aside. "This bodes ill for us; Varek was a staunch supporter of the crown and old Celeph cannot have more than two winters left. I smell Girithlin in this."

Ostomir nodded sullenly. "Father, I just hope that the grain we gave to Tardegil can bolster our position."

Duin patted his son on the back. "Come Ostomir, we best return to Tinare before the weather worsens."

THE KING'S HOUSE

The messenger kneeled before Nimhir, delivering a sealed scroll. "Your Grace, King Araphor of Arthedain sends his compliments."

Nimhir took the scroll and nodded to the messenger. "Cardolan thanks you for your long journey. Please rest and refresh yourself in the main hall." The messenger bowed and withdrew. Nimhir broke the wax seal of Arthedain and unrolled the parchment. He read the document with a rare intensity and when done he set it aside gently. He leaned back closing his eyes and sighed. "This could be our salvation, but the timing is all wrong... all wrong."

Nimhir sat for several minutes in contemplation. He then rolled up the parchment and placed it in his safe. He turned down the lantern and left the room.

In the hallway he was approached by Anariel. "Your Grace, you must come with me. I have something very important to tell you. The Princess... She has been behaving very recklessly." This got the Chancellor's attention and the conversation continued as they walked down the hall.

In front of the Princess' door, two soldiers stood talking. "Baranor, we can't keep letting her go out on these forays. If anyone finds out, we're dead," one mail clad warrior pleaded with his partner outside the Princess' bedchamber.

Baranor shook his head. "The Royal Guard has protected the Sovereigns of Cardolan for more than half a millennium wherever and whenever they would go. If that brat Princess goes out, we follow."

Baranor's friend struck his gauntleted fist against the stone wall in frustration. "Are you willing to be executed for that little..." His words were interrupted by the opening of the great bedchamber door.

The guards came to attention, saying in unison, "Good morning, Your Highness." The Princess passed without acknowledging them and continued into the garden.

Baranor shot his comrade a sharp look whispering, "We will speak no more of this."

The Princess opened the door with a radiant smile. The adventure of the previous night had left her flush with the confidence of youth. She felt that nothing could stop her.

_Hmmmm, those thugs… They must have perished in some foul gang rivalry. It has no bearing on our work,_ she pondered briefly, brushing off the experience. Her brush with death left her exhilarated as only an adolescent could feel.

"Why uncle, what brings you here so early?" Nirnadel chimed. Seeing Anariel behind the Chancellor quickly changed her tone. A knot began to form in the pit of her stomach.

_Did she inform him of our activities?_

Nimhir's stern expression revealed the answer.

"Your Highness, I think you know why. Let us go inside and speak." He motioned toward the Princess' chambers and followed behind. He shut the door before Anariel could enter, leaving her huffing outside. Nimhir sat in the plush red velvet chair next to Nirnadel's vanity mirror. Enchanted lanterns supplemented the now growing sunlight. Nirnadel plopped onto her massive bed, allowing the netting to shroud her in her discomfort.

"Damn her," Nirnadel exclaimed.

"Do not blame Anariel," the Chancellor shot back. "It was you who was wrong. She was correct in coming to me. You are out of control," he continued.

Nirnadel's anger began to rise. "Uncle, We are heir to the Throne of Cardolan. We will not be kept prisoner here while the land is ruined... while you play your foolish political games with Hir Girithlin."

Nimhir rose, pointing his finger at Nirnadel, yelling, "Foolish games! These foolish games save lives and secure your crown, which I might add, sits very precariously at the moment. Life is all fun and games to you! Run around and save the people. If only we all had such freedom. Who would ascend to the Throne if you are killed? We'd have civil war! Remember Calimendil? What happened then!"

Nirnadel was in tears by this time. She remembered the devastating civil war, which had nearly destroyed Cardolan two centuries ago. King Calimendil and his heirs perished leaving numerous claimants to the Throne. Blood feuds and deep mistrust endured even to this day as a result. Sobbing, she spat, "Fine, what do you want from us?"

Nimhir felt great pangs of guilt as he never before had caused Nirnadel to weep, but this time he must be hard hearted. "Your Highness, as Chancellor of the Realm and Guardian of the Throne of Cardolan I confine you to your quarters until such time as you demonstrate an ability to control your actions." With this, he stood and departed.

Nirnadel lay wrapped in her quilt for some time before rising. She shuffled over to the silver mirror and gazed at her reflection. With her eyes puffy and her cheeks red, she sat and washed her face.

"We swear We will never cry again. The land needs our strength not our tears," she whispered.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

The herbs delivered by Nel and Anna came as a very welcome relief. Many of the patients were improving and Firiel was finding new strength. Haedorial the bard was even up and about, munching on crackers. He still had a black eye and a deep bruise on his cheek, but a smile was on his face. Swallowing his last cracker, Haedorial took his empty soup bowl to the kitchen passing Firiel and Kaile. Bowing with courtly grace he grinned. "M'lady, this humble bard gives many thanks for his life. Please tell that brave swordsman that my services are also at his disposal. I am but a simple ..." The bard stopped mid sentence noticing the ladies discomfort with his mention of Valandil. Normally one to do more talking than listening, the bard's near death experience had given him some deep introspection and a different perspective on life.

Firiel quickly changed the subject. "I was beginning to think that nothing would go right."

Kaile took her queue. "We really must do something to repay Nel and Anna."

"Nel and Anna?" inquired Haedorial.

"Our mysterious benefactors," replied Firiel. "They came from nowhere bringing food, herbs, and supplies. We have no way of repaying them for their kindness," she continued.

Kaile furrowed her brow. "Perhaps we can retain the bard's services for this. I have something in mind." Turning to the bard she continued, "Haedorial, are you familiar with all of the noble houses of Cardolan?"

The bard, flush with pride, responded, "Why of course, fair ladies, of course."

THE STREETS OF THARBAD – Hithui 1409

"Damn that woman. Damn her and her crusade," Valandil muttered as steam came from his breath. The day was chill with heavy rain and the two partners had their cloaks pulled tightly around them.

Mercatur grunted, "Blondie, eh? I knew she was no good. Too uppity, that one." Valandil grunted in return. They stood near the wharf on the North Bank near Liam the Grocer's watching and waiting. The two were soon to be rewarded.

Michl, the short Dunnish boy working for Liam, came out of the grocery and made his way to the North Bridge. Valandil backhanded Mercatur. "Let's go." The mercenary fell into step beside the sergeant. The plainly dressed Michl crossed the bridge and turned right toward the docks. He stopped outside the residence of an old sea captain and looked around. Valandil and Mercatur ducked around a corner. Seeing no danger, the boy crossed the street and entered the office of the Harbormaster.

"Why did I know he would go in there?" Mercatur shrugged.

After nearly ten minutes the youth reemerged and began heading back. Valandil motioned to Mercatur and said, "Let the boy go, we can pick him up later. Let's find out about the Harbormaster's connection."

"We'll try to convince them that we're outlaws from Rhudaur. That's right up my alley," Mercatur nodded.

THE HARBORMASTER'S OFFICE

Hallas the Harbormaster was a mixed breed Dunadan, and a large one at that. He stood six foot four, and was all muscle. His darkly tanned skin was coarse and leathery from years at sea. He wore a leather tunic and breeches and a dark red sea cap. Hallas was preoccupied at the time 'correcting' the ships cargo logs to match the loads he was actually sending to the noble families and businesses of Cardolan. At least ten percent of what came through the port of Tharbad never made it to its intended destination. Hallas had grown wealthy, but not stupid. He never flaunted his spoils, but had rather hidden it away in a secret location for better days or an emergency. The entrance of the two broke his concentration.

"Eh, what do you two want? I'm busy," Hallas croaked as he looked up from his ledger. Mercatur played on his Rhudauran accent. "Aye, friend, we be two mercenaries from afar and we be here to meet a ship in Tharbad. Have you the schedule of shipping?"

Hallas stuffed his books in a drawer. "Err...It's on the wall, over there." He said pointing at a sheet of parchment tacked to the wall over a fishing net. The walls were covered with old harpoons, spears, nets, and tattered sails. The smell of the sea was strong here. Valandil scanned the document looking over the names of the vessels that would soon dock here. A great many were supply ships from Gondor bringing relief cargoes to Tharbad.

"I see our ship. Thanks." Valandil smiled, waving to the Harbormaster. Hallas grunted, anxious to get back to his manifests.

As the two left, he went to the door and bolted it. "Damn, mercenaries," he commented to himself.

THE COURTHOUSE

"Sir, we have some information, but we need a favor to follow up on our lead," Valandil stated, bowing before Eärdil the Minister of Justice. The Minister sat at his teak desk in his gray and gold trimmed robe. Valandil explained the transactions at Liam's and the boy's trek to the Harbormaster's.

Eärdil nodded attentively and when Valandil was finished he spoke. "You have made some progress. It grieves me to hear of the Harbormaster's possible involvement," The Minister stroked his chin, thinking. Then he continued, "What is the favor that you ask?"

"Chiefie, we're gonna need some fake passes. Ones that'll make us out to be harbor inspectors. We're gonna see the difference 'tween what arrives and what gets delivered," Mercatur said.

"Very well gentlemen, you will have them tomorrow morning," Eärdil agreed. Mercatur began to speak, but Eärdil cut him off. "Of course you'll need some money for bribes," he said handing over a bag of 200 silver coins to the startled Mercatur.

The Mercenary spoke, "you a wizard or somethin'?" He reached out to take the bag.

Suddenly, Eärdil retracted the bag. "Wait, I think Valandil should hold the coins." Mercatur gave a hurt look, but smiled. Valandil took the bag and they both bowed before departing.

"He's not the Minister for nothin'," Mercatur commented.

THE DOCKS

Dorlas Borlinte was supervising the unloading of his ship, the Freelancer, as laborers brought up crates and barrels from Mithlond. Dorlas was known as a competent ship's captain who had worked for the House of Finwarin for many years. He had amassed enough wealth to purchase his own vessel and begin freelancing. His ship was named accordingly. Dorlas and his First Mate stood on the deck counting the boxes and marking them on their inventory. Mercatur and Valandil approached the gang plank, careful to remain clear of the growing stack of crates.

"Permission to come aboard, Capt'n," called Mercatur.

Dorlas handed the inventory to the Mate and replied, "who be ye?" Valandil produced an inspector's pass. Dorlas squinted, then motioned, "Awright, come aboard, I've been expecting you." The two scurried aboard, dodging workers. The Captain handed Valandil the copies of the cargo manifest, "you're new here. These are for the Harbormaster and these go to the City Office."

"Aye, we just started. We'll make sure they get these," Mercatur responded. Departing the ship, they headed for home.

Valandil reviewed the copies and smiled grimly. "Now for step two."

Valandil turned the copies over to Eärdil and duplicates were made. The copies were then sent to the Harbormaster and the City Office so as not to arouse suspicion. After a day, Valandil and Mercatur went to the house of Hir Eredoriath in King's Row, one of the noble houses. The shipment was being delivered on schedule and four workers were unloading the crates and barrels and taking them in through the service entrance. Valandil counted the parcels, as they were unpacked and when the workers were done Valandil mused aloud, "two crates and a barrel short."

"Looks like we're getting close," Mercatur replied.

AT THE TINARE MANSION

Ostomir Tinare gazed out of the window of the Tinare mansion in King's Row. He was preoccupied with the political issues confronting his family. As the heir to the Tinare Household and eldest son of Hir Duin Tinare, he took these issues very seriously. Ostomir was a tall young Dunadan, a strapping warrior and a proud aristocrat. He wore the blue surcoat of his family over a gold silk tunic and his jet black hair reflected the light of a nearby lamp.

Looking out at the overcast skies, Ostomir's attention was caught by two men standing near the Bar Aran, or Royal Mansion. They looked to be common warriors holding some sort of parchment. The more muscular, darker one took notes while the leaner, taller one pointed at a wagon that was being unloaded. They looked suspicious and he decided to find out what they were up to. Ostomir summoned four household knights and sent them out to bring the men in.

A short time later the knights returned empty handed. Apologizing, they stated that the men could not be found. Ostomir nodded, and dismissing the knights he made a mental note to keep an eye out for these men.

AT ARTAN'S HOUSE AND BATHS OF DELIGHTS

Mercatur and Valandil were sitting in the waiting room of Artan's House and Baths of Delight discussing what had just occurred.

"So we know that the merchandise disappears between the ship and the delivery point. What we don't know is who or how," Valandil mused.

"Well, we now know that the Harbormaster has knowledge of this. I say we break in to the office and look over those books he was so anxious ta hide," Mercatur said.

"You noticed that? You know, I would like to look at those records. Then we would know the extent of his involvement," Valandil continued.

"It's settled then, we go at midnight. Come let's enjoy the baths." Mercatur stood and walked over to a woman clad only in a sheer lace robe and gave her four silver coins. "For me and me partner," he spoke, caressing her cheek. She smiled and put the coins in a strongbox.

Valandil rose, but was consumed by guilt. Waving to Mercatur he called, "Uh, no thanks. I'll meet you back here a half hour before midnight." The mercenary nodded as Valandil left.

Taking a towel and robe from the young woman Mercatur stated, "My buddy's got domestic problems. I'll just assume his share of the evening." He gave the girl a peck on the cheek and then headed down the steam filled hallway toward the luxurious baths.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

Three days had gone by and neither Nel nor Anna had come by. Firiel was a little worried as they had been visiting almost nightly for some time. Many patients had fully recovered and had been sent home, however, more still came in daily as the weather grew worse. Haedorial was one of the fully recovered. He wished the healers good luck and promised to return whenever they needed him. Jonu had become friends with the bard and had learned much about his own Dunnish culture from him. The boy was especially sad to see him go.

Firiel felt empty somehow without Valandil and Mercatur. She disliked the mercenary, but in a way he made life more colorful. Valandil was another matter. Kaile and Jonu were exceptional assistants but were too young to be close companions.

_Alas_, she thought to herself, _it's too late now to do anything about that_. _They will never return_.

THE KING'S HOUSE

Nirnadel had settled down for a few days and put on a polite face for Nimhir. The Chancellor, stern at first, quickly melted in the face of the Princess' charm. Soon, his vigilance was lowered and the Princess saw her opportunity. "We will have to do this without Anariel," she said to herself. Dressing herself in a deep gray tunic and pants she created a rope of sheets and hung it out the window. She slid down the rope and then looked up toward the mansion. No one had noticed she thought smugly to herself. She then tucked the rope behind the many vines that grew along the walls of the mansion. Satisfied that the rope was not readily visible in the dark, Nirnadel crept to a small hole in the outer wall that only she knew about.

Pressing his ear to the door of the Princess' chamber Baranor swore quietly, "Damn, I knew it."

His partner groaned. "I thought this was over with. I thought the Chancellor put an end to this nonsense. That's it. We've got to tell him."

Baranor held up his hand. "No, not yet. We just follow for now. Same as before."

The other guard rolled his eyes. "I knew you were going to say that. I knew it."

Baranor led the way downstairs to the base of the mansion wall. He kneeled down and skillfully examined the ground nearby by the light of the lanterns. He tracked her to the outer wall and discovered a small hole. The two guards struggled through and emerged near the City Offices. The younger guard shrugged. "So, where do we go now?"

Baranor backhanded him in the chest. "Well, where do you think? Where's she been going all of this time?" The other guard's eyes widened with realization and the two set off for the south side of town.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

Nel's return was a welcome event to all in the Houses of Healing. She had brought another small bag of coins to fill the dwindling coffers of the House. Jonu had brought a pot of tea and the ladies were seated near the fireplace, making small talk. Kaile gave Firiel a knowing glance and then spoke, "Good Nel, where is your friend this evening?"

Nel appeared flustered by this question and hesitated. "Err, our friend, Anna, is old, umm, and is no longer capable of nocturnal forays. We will continue to journey to the South Bank to bring much needed supplies."

Kaile continued, "Well, we thank you from the bottom of our hearts and have a small request." Nel smiled and nodded.

"There is someone we would like you to meet. Your generosity saved his life. He wishes to meet you and repay you," Kaile said. This was mostly true, but Kaile had her own reasons for setting this up.

"There is no need to repay us, but We would be delighted to meet him," Nel answered.

Kaile filled Nel and Firiel's cup with tea and then spoke, "Please come again tomorrow and he will arrange to be here."

Nel beamed with pride. "We will be here."

The ladies talked on for a few more minutes, then having finished her tea Nel rose and bid farewell. Partway home her excitement was impossible to contain. "We knew there was merit to this. Our people grow strong and healthy and land can be healed." As she skipped along the well lit main street, she failed to notice the two green cloaked figures in the shadows nearby.

THE STREETS OF THARBAD

As the city watch began calling out midnight, Valandil rose and strode over to Artan's. Entering the building he bumped a man of wide girth who looked a lot like the Mayor. The man quickly put his cap on and scurried out the door followed by two guards. Valandil sat next to Mercatur who was reclining on a plush maroon sofa. "You know, I think that was the Mayor," Valandil said.

Mercatur raised an eyebrow. "Come, we have work to do," he responded, rising and strapping on his weapons belt. He checked his axe, and being satisfied with its lethality, ushered Valandil to the exit.

The two made their way to the docks, and at Mercatur's insistence, entered the Sign of the Orc's Head. A true dive, this place repulsed Valandil. Unnamed substances lay on the rotting floorboards along with unconscious sailors and riff raff. Valandil was sure this was a mistake, but upon entering, everyone gave Mercatur a wide berth. A horrifyingly ugly and obese woman called out to them, "Mercenary, a drink for you and yer friend." Two scrawny serving maids warily approached, bringing the pair some ale. Mercatur took his mug, downed its contents and then smashed the mug on another patron's head, shattering it. The scruffy character bellowed in pain, grabbing his bleeding head. Mercatur walked over to a seat with a window to the Harbormaster's Office. Three patrons seated there quickly left. Valandil followed holding his mug.

The two sat down and Valandil give the mercenary a quizzical look. Mercatur smiled and said, "I've been coming here more than a month now. I had to break a few heads at first, but now that I have a reputation I only have to maintain it once in a while."

Valandil nodded and then took a sip of ale. He sprayed it out the window. "Blah...This is the worst ale I've ever tasted. It's putrid."

Mercatur took the mug from his comrade and drained the ale down his throat. "Isn't it?" he asked.

THE HARBORMASTER'S OFFICE

The Harbormaster's office looked deserted. After five more minutes of surveillance, they headed out. Valandil shattered one of the small glass panes on the door and unlocked the door. The two entered. Mercatur fired up a lantern and slowly raised its shield, exposing a small beam of light. Valandil searched near the Harbormaster's desk and discovered a locked strongbox. He sat on the floor and began examining the lock. Mercatur stood shining the light on the box.

Two boys sat fishing on the dock that evening hoping to catch a meal. They were dock monkeys, orphaned children working the dock for survival. The two ragged youths had three fish in their bucket so far. This would make a fine breakfast to fill their aching bellies. The older boy, about twelve, was baiting his hook when he noticed a glow in the Harbormaster's Office. He grabbed the other boy by the ear and pointed to the office. "Hey Roach, ya see that? Someone's in Hallas' Office. You go git im, I'll wait ere'." Roach then scurried off.

The lock was pretty tough and neither man was a skilled lockpicker. Finally, Mercatur grew frustrated. "We're not gonna hide the fact that we was here, so I'm gonna smash the box."

Valandil shrugged and moved aside. Mercatur drew his axe and raised it. As he began his swing an arrow crashed through the window and struck Mercatur in the back. The Mercenary swore as his swing went wide. The front door swung open next and a sailor rushed in.

Valandil quickly drew his broadsword and kicked a chair at the sailor as Mercatur rolled over the desk and landed with a grunt. Another sailor came in and hurled a dagger at Valandil missing wide, but forcing him into the open. The first sailor swung hard at Valandil and was parried easily. The sailor then traded blows with the soldier, who scored a slash on the sailor's sword arm.

Nearby, Mercatur struggle to his feet and was tackled by the second sailor, who was holding another dagger. The two rolled on the ground with the sailor pounding at the arrow wound in the Mercenary's back.

To the side, Valandil dodged a wild swing and came up under his opponent's guard. He drove his sword several inches into the man's belly. The sailor winced, blood running down his chin. The soldier quickly withdrew the weapon and kicked the man through the window with a crash.

Mercatur was stunned by the blows of the sailor to his wounded back. Seizing the opportunity the man sunk his dagger into Mercatur's left shoulder. The mercenary gritted his teeth and clubbed the sailor in the mouth with his fist. The man grunted in pain, but before Mercatur could follow up, Valandil plunged his own dagger into the sailor's back.

The soldier was about to roll the dead man off of Mercatur when the mercenary called out, "Behind you!"

Valandil spun to meet the rush of the Harbormaster. The massive Harbormaster swung his spiked steel mace at Valandil's head, barely missing, but shattering a filing cabinet next to him. Valandil stumbled and received a kick from Hallas that sent him flying over the desk into chairs. He got up just in time to avoid another blow that sent splinters of wood up from the desk. Valandil pushed the desk forward, but Hallas was too quick.

_By the Valar, I am outmatched here, _Valandil thought, his mind racing for options.

Mercatur rose and was immediately struck in the chest with the mace. There was a sickening thud and crack of bones and Mercatur fell with a crash. Hallas turned brandishing his mace with now bloody spikes. "So, found what you were looking for, eh?" Valandil braced for the new onslaught, but it never came. Hallas staggered forward and fell with a crossbow bolt protruding from his back. Mercatur dropped the crossbow and then lay back, coughing blood.

Valandil sheathed his sword and rushed over to his fallen friend. "I'll get you to Firiel, just hang on."

He hoisted Mercatur over his shoulder as the Mercenary groaned in pain. "Don't forget the box, you idiot."

Supported by Valandil, Mercatur pounded on the door of the Houses of Healing. He pushed Valandil away croaking, "Take the box to the Minister, I'll be fine." Valandil hesitated, but then ran off to Eärdil's home.

The door opened moments later and Jonu stepped out. Seeing the Mercenary he began to sneer, but quickly noticed the blood seeping from his nose and mouth. The big Rhudauran clapped Jonu on the shoulder. "Take me inside son, I need to see Firiel." The Dunnish boy stepped aside and Mercatur staggered in. He dropped his axe and crossbow to the floor and slumped down into the chair with the blade mark. Weakly, he lowered his head onto the table. "This chairz muh favrit..."

xoxoxoxoxoxo

Gasping for air, Valandil roused the Minister and a locksmith was summoned. When the box was opened, it was revealed that indeed Hallas was passing illegal herbs and smuggling food while taking bribes and pirating imports.

Eärdil read some more of the documents. "Liam the Greengrocer has received much of the illegal products to sell at exorbitant prices. Two others are implicated: Lorindel Lintehen, a guildsman with the sailors and Anvelig the Chandler. Lintehen was the actual smuggler in bringing the goods into Tharbad. A good friend of Hallas', his ship was personally 'inspected' by the Harbormaster. Anvelig was the treasurer of the group. He laundered the money gained in the drug trade through his warehouse."

The documents in Hallas' strongbox contained detailed records of transactions and deliveries. Eärdil was pleased. This was enough to make arrests and ten officers were dispatched to take the smugglers into custody. While his men were out he changed from his night robe into a wool tunic and pants. He wore the cloak of his office and an elaborate cloak pin of gold and platinum. His excitement was evident and infectious. Valandil couldn't help but pace around.

A half hour later the guardsmen returned. An officer bowed. "M'Lord, Liam and Anvelig have been arrested and have been taken to the city jail under the watchful eye of Mardil. Lintehen was apparently alerted to the incursion into Hallas' office. He fled only moments before we arrived and a city wide search is in progress."

Eärdil nodded at the news. He was a little disappointed, but aware that they had done pretty well. He realized that the night was just beginning, however, and that they must return to the residences of the smugglers and uncover more evidence.

For the next few hours, Eärdil, Valandil and a few senior guardsmen combed the houses of Liam, Anvelig, and the fugitive Lintehen. All three homes were a veritable treasure trove of illegal goods: hallucinogens, sedatives, stimulants, and even poisons. These were confiscated and brought to the Courthouse to be locked away. By dawn the job was completed. The Minister dismissed the guards, giving them each a gold coin from his own pocket. Wearily turning to Valandil he smiled and said, "I am still too excited to return to bed. You have done a magnificent task here and I would like to invite you to my home for breakfast. My staff can cook a marvelous meal."

Valandil was also quite wound up. "I would be glad to Sir, but first I must check on Mercatur. He was wounded in the fight with Hallas and is now at the Houses of Healing. I will come by afterward."

Eärdil clapped the soldier on the back and nodded. "You give my best to that cocky mercenary. If there is anything that I can do?" Valandil smiled and turned away toward the South Bank.

12


	7. Disorganized Crime

THE HOUSES OF HEALING – Hithui 1409 

Firiel was sipping morning tea in the common lounge contemplating the return of Mercatur. She wondered,_ Where is Valandi?_ _What has happened_?

Mercatur was going into shock when she was roused by Jonu. He would laugh weakly and mumble incoherently. She stopped the bleeding, but he had lost a lot of blood and his injuries were serious. He was now sleeping soundly in one of the wards on the third floor. She felt he would recover, but he would surely be on his back for a while. Kaile was in a dark mood with the return of the Mercenary. She stomped about silently, cleaning out bedpans and folding sheets. Jonu and some of the other attendants swept the halls and laundered the linens.

Firiel's mind wandered to other concerns, _The Plague is still hitting the city hard and supplies are still low despite Nel's constant charity_. The loss of the gold could still be felt keenly here and she still had not released herself from blame. She twirled her long golden hair, contemplating her situation for a few more moments before downing her tea and donning her Healer's Robe.

There was a knock on the door, which was answered by Jonu. Valandil stood there in a chainmail shirt. He was dirty and had obviously been in a fight. His gloves were stained by dried blood as was his undershirt. His black hair was unkempt and the sleepiness in his eyes was clearly evident. Seeing Jonu he grunted, "I've come to see Mercatur, how is he doing?"

Jonu turned away saying snidely, "You'll have to ask him."

Without expression, Valandil entered, closing the door behind him. Seeing Firiel he declared, "I'll not stay long. I just came to see how he is."

Without looking up she replied, "He's on the third floor, room two." Valandil grunted again and proceeded up the stairs.

Seeing Mercatur unconscious he wrote a message detailing all that had occurred. He left it on a table next to the bed and turned to go. Seeing an adolescent girl attending the room he spoke, "Take good care of my friend." He smiled weakly and headed back to Eärdil's home.

The meal at Eärdil's home was magnificent. The food shortage had forced the Minister's staff to be creative. The Minister used his rations for a week to provide this breakfast. A part of him identified with the food smugglers who could enjoy excellent meals all the time, but he was the law and could not afford not to set an example. Valandil tore through the eggs and sausage and several glasses of fruit juice imported from the southern hirdoms. Eärdil gave Valandil a large sack of coins as his promised reward. "I do not have to worry about you not giving Mercatur his share. However, if the roles were reversed..." the Minister joked, provoking laughter from Valandil.

The two sat and talked until noon. The Minister was interested in hearing about Valandil's exploits in the war and his adventures about town. Valandil spoke about his frustration with Firiel and the loss of the money. He revealed his promise to give his share of the money to the Houses of Healing. Eärdil was very impressed. "Valandil, I have need of a warrior with your bravery and honesty. Those are rare traits to come by these days. How would you feel about accepting a commission in the City Guard? The pay is decent, but the hours are long and hard," he asked.

"Minister, I would have to think on it and right now I am unable to think until I have had some sleep," Valandil answered groggily.

"Fair enough. Take some time... and good luck with your situation," Eärdil added, showing Valandil to the door. The soldier trudged slowly back to his flat and the moment his head touch the pillow he was asleep.

SOMEWHERE IN CARDOLAN

Lintehen stood in an intense light facing a figure shrouded in darkness. He fidgeted nervously and sweat beaded down his face. He was a thin man with leathery skin from years on the sea. His sailor's garb was soaked with perspiration and he fanned himself with his hand to stay cool. Two men in masks and dark cloaks stood behind him holding his arms.

"Fool, how did you allow this to happen?" spoke the figure.

Lintehen's hands shook. He answered tremulously, "Uh, sir... I uh... Hallas was to blame, he allowed the guards to see his records... ummm, I was away... I had nothing to do with it... I swear."

The figure shrugged, then motioned Lintehen closer. The men in the masks pushed the sailor forward. Lintehen shied away, repulsed by the figure. Out of the shadows a hand in a black glove reached out and grasped Lintehen by the tunic.

"You were still part of his organization. Failure is intolerable! Take him to the mines, he'll make fine snaga for the orcs," the figure shoved Lintehen back into the waiting arms of the masked men. They held him tight and dragged him out through the door. Lintehen's wailing could be heard for some time before he was out of earshot.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

Haedorial the Bard had arrived when Kaile and Jonu were setting the table in the lounge. The House's finest pewter settings came out for the occasion. The dining table was covered in an elaborate red and yellow cloth, a gift from Firiel's grandmother, an elf from Lindon. Jonu greeted the Bard and sat him at the table with a glass of wine. Haedorial gladly accepted.

"Thank you dear boy, I could certainly use one of these. It's quite cold out you know," he said and then took a sip and marveled at the taste and texture. "Magnificent! May I see the label?" he inquired. Jonu brought him the bottle and cork. Haedorial inspected the label and smiled. "From the King's own vineyards. A fine year too." He set the bottle down and took another sip, relishing the taste.

Kaile brought out the platters of food. It was meager fare, but times were hard. Firiel, who had prepared the meal, went upstairs to change. Jonu sat at the table, entranced by Haedorial's stories.

It was shortly after Firiel had come downstairs when a knock was heard at the door. Jonu rushed to open it. Nel was there, dressed in a fine tunic and breeches. Her boots were of doe skin with fur lining. She had pulled her raven hair back and tied it in a ponytail. She was radiant as she stepped into the light and the gasps of all could be heard.

No one gasped louder than Haedorial whose expression was one of awe.

Kaile ushered Nel in and sat her at the head of the table. Firiel, who sat at the other end, spoke, "Welcome Nel, we wanted to thank you for your kindness and we have a guest whose life you saved by your actions. May I introduce Haedorial the Bard." Turning to Haedorial she continued, "This is Nel, our honored guest." Nel extended her hand to Haedorial who was seated next to her. He took her hand and kissed it gently. A look of recognition was in his eyes.

Nel smiled nervously. "Have We met you before, sir?"

"Er...not exactly...um...no we haven't," he replied. Though true, he had performed at several Royal functions in happier times. Kaile and Jonu began serving the meal.

Firiel smiled warmly. "We have not entertained since before the war and these table settings have not been out of the attic since the turn of the century. However, I won't bore you with my plate stories. Haedorial, please explain to Nel your story."

Haedorial turned to Nel and told her the tale of his scuffle outside the gate and how he was beaten to within an inch of his life. "Two strangers took the risk of saving me and carrying me here. I was dying and healing herbs were very scarce and only your charity saved my life."

Nel was flush with pride and blushing furiously. Nimhir was wrong, she thought. She needed to be directly involved in the Kingdom. There could be no other way.

The meal was most entertaining thanks to Haedorial. He told tales of Gil Galad, the Elven King of Old and of far off Gondor. Jonu was enthralled. He couldn't wait to grow up so he could see the world for himself. Finally, when it was getting late, Nel bade farewell to everyone and thanked them for the dinner. She departed into the darkness as she had arrived.

When several minutes had passed, Kaile grabbed Haedorial impatiently. "Well?"

Haedorial looked slowly back to her. "Young lady, you are not going to believe this."

ELSEWHERE IN THARBAD – Girithron 1409

Three men entered the shop of Nomrel the Cartwright as the heavyset man was repairing a wheel for carriage of the Jewler's Guild. The men, two tall and one small were cloaked and hooded. They stood behind Nomrel for some time before he noticed them. The balding cartwright gasped in surprise when he saw them.

"Hoa... You men scared me. Why didn't you just ring the bell? What can I do for you?" he asked, shaking off the surprise.

One of the tall ones stepped forward. He reeked of alcohol as he spoke, "We are the Gurth Rodyn. We have noticed that this is a very dangerous neighborhood. We'd like to offer you some protection."

Nomrel pinched up his face. "What do you mean? This is quite a safe neighborhood."

"No it isn't. Bad things can happen to people who are unprotected. If you donate a small weekly sum of goods or gold, we can be persuaded to make sure nothing happens to your shop," the tall one spoke again.

Nomrel laughed heartily. "You men are insane, get out of here."

The tall one smirked. "All right, we'll see. Soon, you'll beg to have us protect you." With that the three departed.

Nomrel shrugged. "I can't believe the gall...and on the week before Yüle," he declared and then went back to repairing that tire.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

Kaile's mouth hung open for several minutes. Firiel and Jonu were too stunned to speak. Haedorial nodded. "I saw Her Highness at a Royal Tournament two years ago. King Ostoher was holding his annual joust and I was a player at the festivities. We were doing 'Dardan the tragic warlord and..."

Firiel interrupted him. "Never mind that. What about Nel?"

Haedorial nodded. "Apologies good Firiel. Her name is Nirnadel, daughter of Ostoher and Crown Princess of the Kingdom of Cardolan. All these lands are being held for her by Nimhir the Regent and Chancellor of the Realm until her majority when she will be coronated at the Royal Palace of Thalion."

Haedorial's audience blinked. This was unbelievable, the future sovereign of Cardolan running about like an errand girl.

Firiel shook her head. "This can't be. Haedorial, could you be wrong?"

Haedorial sniffed in mock offense. "Madam, I am a bard. I pride myself on knowing who is who and what is what. Have you noticed the quality of her clothing? First rate. How about her accent? Most definitely royal...the best tutors...access to the finest books. How about the way in which she refers to herself as 'We'...the Royal 'We'?"

Kaile bit her lip. "Well, I'll be damned," she said softly.

ELSEWHERE IN THARBAD

"The shoes will be delivered on time, as usual," Ibal said automatically to the Gondorian page standing before him. The adolescent nodded and paid Ibal twelve gold coins; a large sum. Ibal, the exclusive contractor of footwear for the Gondorian Embassy, put the gold in his safe box. He thought to himself that the winter of 1409 1410 wouldn't be so disastrous after all.

As the page departed, two tall men and one small one entered his shop. One of the tall ones picked up a shoe and strode toward Ibal. The conservative shoe craftsman looked up and smiled. "May I help you?"

AT OTHER SHOPS 

Serinde the designer collapsed to the ground, trembling. Tears flowed from her eyes. She rubbed her head where the small man had struck her with a stick. A lump began to rise. "Such an outrage!" she screamed. Only after several of her finest fabrics were torn to shreds did she pay the men some silver. They left, cackling to themselves.

Findegil the merchant groaned. His hand was bruised by the small man. The two tall ones held him while the small one stomped his hand with a boot. They had gone, but not before they got Findegil's 'elven cloak'.

Later that week, Barkwell's Tannery and Leather shop was burned to the ground. Word got out that this was an example of the disasters that would befall 'unprotected' merchants.

Nomrel's mood was very different when the three men returned the following week. The two tall ones approached while the small one stood watch. One of the tall ones spoke quietly to the other, "Merwai, don't forget the speech now." Nomrel just managed to overhear this and kept it in his memory.

After Merwai had made the group's demands, Nomrel nodded grimly. He handed the man a bag of ten silver coins. The men left and Nomrel returned to his work.

VALANDIL'S FLAT 

Valandil felt renewed after a week of rest. As it was midweek, he wanted to stretch his legs around town, shopping at the various markets. He also wanted to check on Mercatur. On his way to the Houses of Healing he was approached by a well-dressed, heavyset man. The man appeared nervous, biting his lower lip.

"Excuse me, young man. Ummm...I heard of your success with the smugglers... Er...can I buy you a drink?" the man blurted out. Valandil was taken aback. He became suspicious thinking that smugglers might want to take revenge on him. Seeing Valandil's suspicion the man continued, "Er... I am Nomrel the Cartwright...Umm, maybe you know me... my father built the coronation carriage of King Minalcar a century ago?...Um, no? Well, I need your help. Please, please follow me."

Valandil nodded, now a little curious. He followed Nomrel into the King's Crown Tavern, vigilant against a possible ambush, Nomrel requested a secluded booth and soon the two were seated in a private room. Valandil sat after the merchant. He scanned the booth and kept his hand under his cloak where he kept a small dagger. A wise precaution he learned from Mercatur. Some hot tea was served to ease the chill. Nomrel warmed his hands on the tea cup, blowing across the liquid.

Valandil looked up. "I'm listening," he said quietly.

Nomrel nodded and cleared his throat. "Several shopkeepers in the central district, including myself, have recently been contacted by a group of ruffians who call themselves the Gurth Rodyn. They have demanded weekly payments of money or goods in return for 'protecting' our shops. At first, I did not take these demands seriously. Then, Barkwell's Tannery and Leather Shop was burned down as an example. The gang told me they would return on Orgillion (Saturday) for their payment. I will not continue to pay such extortion, but I have no wish to lose my shop either. If you can find and eliminate these blackguards before their next visit, I will gladly pay you fifty percent of the money they are demanding. I've heard of your deeds. You and your mercenary friend have a reputation for getting the job done. What do you say? Please, I am desperate."

Valandil was a little disturbed at 'having a reputation' as well as still harboring some suspicion. He leaned back considering the offer. Eärdil might be interested in this information. He decided to play along and see where it might lead.

_If Nomrel is honest, so much the better_. Valandil nodded and the two men shook hands.

"What can you tell me?" Valandil asked. Nomrel sipped more tea and scratched his balding head. He then related the incident at his shop while Valandil quietly nodded.

When Nomrel had finished, he summoned the servant and ordered some bread and cheese. When the servant left he continued, "I know of five other shops that have been visited: The Mithril Crown, Herbs of Quality, Ibal's Shoes, Findegil's, and Serende's Originals. I think some of these shops may already be paying out protection." Valandil nodded understanding.

Nomrel spoke again. "The gang appears early. Three men, two tall and one small, all cloaked and hooded. One of the tall ones talks... I heard his name... Merwai, yes that's it. He reeked of alcohol too. The other two..."

At that moment the servant arrived with the plate of bread and cheese. He left a bowl of condiments also: mustard, corn relish, and a creamy spread that was the specialty ofthe house. Nomrel thanked the young man and tipped him a copper coin. When the servant had departed, the merchant looked Valandil square in the eyes and asked, "Will you help me? I sense you to be a good man. I will give you ten gold coins today. Forty more will follow if you agree."

"Why not go to the town garrison?" Valandil countered.

"They mean well, but frankly, they are so understaffed I can't rely on them. Besides, I heard rumors that many of them were corrupt." Nomrel answered.

Valandil remembered the execution of the corrupt constable by Eärdil. "The Minister of the King's Justice is a true man. He executed a corrupt official before my very eyes. I think he can be trusted."

Nomrel shook his head. "That may be true, but what of his staff? My shop could be ashes before they get around to me. Please, consider my offer." Valandil was still uncomfortable with vigilantism, but agreed to think it over. Nomrel insisted that he take the ten gold coins with him and that they meet back at the King's Crown tomorrow at the same time.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

Mercatur was finally up and very mean tempered. He sulked in his bed quietly eating the meal the nurse had brought. Except for bringing his meals and changing his bandages, she avoided him. He felt weak and very sore and had still not read the note nor counted the money from Valandil. Finishing his last crumb, he grabbed a stick and reached over to close the curtains, blocking out the sunlight.

THE COURTHOUSE

"Minister, I need to speak with you about a matter of great importance," Valandil said to Eärdil entering his office.

The Minister was dressed immaculately as usual. He was going over the Constabulary's budget. He looked up and smiled warmly at Valandil, motioning him in. "All this paperwork. I miss getting out into the field with my constables. We have no scribe now you know, and I have to do all of this myself."

Valandil sat and put Nomrel's bag of gold coins on the teak desk. "Sir, I was approached by a merchant named Nomrel, who states that he is being threatened. He gave me these coins as an incentive to help him. I knew it would be best to bring this to your attention."

Eärdil nodded. "That was good thinking. We cannot have vigilantes running around. We need to coordinate our efforts if we are to succeed in overcoming this wave of crime."

Valandil felt good at hearing these words. "What can we do?" he asked.

"I'd like to take this money and hire some willing men. These men will assist you in your first investigation. You will have a wide latitude of action in closing this case. I trust your judgment. I can get you six men by tomorrow. You may personally interview each one and choose the ones to your liking. Tell Nomrel that you will take the job, but let him think you are acting on your own. We need to keep this on a low profile," Eärdil stated, drawing up a form to procure more men. "I hate to use outside funds, but we really have little choice."

Valandil rose and thanked the Minister. He was glad to be back in charge of something. It seemed his life was going nowhere since the war and now this gave him a ray of hope.

That afternoon, Valandil headed south to the Houses of Healing to check on Mercatur. The Mercenary was in a foul mood, but seeing Valandil brightened him somewhat.

"It's awfully dark in here," Valandil noted, checking the curtains.

Mercatur nodded, grunting.

"Did you get the payment?" Valandil added. Mercatur grunted again, pointing to the unopened brown sack on the table. Valandil sensed the Mercenary's depression. "We've got another job. It should pay pretty well."

Mercatur shook his head. "...not interested. I think I'll hang here for awhile."

"So, you do talk," shot Valandil. Mercatur sat motionless. Valandil pulled out ten of his own gold coins from his purse. "Here's your half of our first days pay," he lied. He tossed the coins next to the sack. "Meet me tomorrow at the King's Crown Tavern at nine in the morning so you can earn this money." With that, he left.

Mercatur groaned, rolling out of bed. He walked over to the table and stacked the coins. Ten light golden coins with the image of Ostoher on one side and ram's head on the reverse. Shaking the bag of unopened coins in his hand he pondered for a bit. Setting the bag down, he pulled off the musty patient's robe he had been wearing and put on his wool tunic and pants. Picking up his axe, he strode over to the window and opened the curtain.

THE KING'S CROWN TAVERN - 9:00 AM – Girithron 1409

Valandil sat at one of the booths, eyeing the timepiece that sat on the mantle above the fireplace. The owner of the tavern, Elgwain Grelive had just brought a baked ham and some bread to Valandil, and the aroma brought rumbles to his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, Valandil saw Nomrel enter the tavern. Nomrel spotted Valandil and waved. Valandil searched around for Mercatur, but was disappointed. The cartwright sat down at the booth and slid in. Valandil took a gulp of mead and passed some of the ham to Nomrel. The older man thanked him and ordered his own beverage from Elgwain.

Valandil spoke, "You have my services. It appears that I'll be acting alone..."

"Don't speak so fast," a familiar voice spoke. Mercatur slid in next to Nomrel and grabbed a hunk of ham.

Valandil nearly jumped out of his chair in excitement. He caught himself and continued, "Sorry. Let me introduce my partner, Mercatur. He's the muscle behind the operation."

Nomrel sighed in relief. "This bodes well. If you like, I will allow you to set up at my shop. You can see first hand the group's operation. As I said before, their spokesman is Merwai and he reeked of alcohol.

Mercatur put down his ham and his eyes got big. "Merwai?" he asked.

Valandil cocked an eyebrow. "You know him?"

Mercatur stroked his brown beard. "Why, that little bastard. He's just a two-bit drunk from the Orc's Head. How'd he get hooked up into this sophisticated an operation?"

Nomrel nodded. "I came to the right men. As I promised, here is the forty gold on top of the ten I gave you before." He slid a velvet bag, heavy with gold toward Valandil, who counted twenty to Mercatur.

The merchant downed the last of his ale and stood up. "I will return to my shop. You may come by any time." With that, he departed.

Valandil and Mercatur also stood to leave. They bumped into each other briefly and Valandil felt a new weight in his pocket. Reaching in, he felt thirty gold coins in a sack. He turned to Mercatur. "What's this?"

Mercatur hefted his axe and smiled. "So, you gave me half of our first days pay, huh? Well, this mercenary wants to actually earn it." Leading the way out of the tavern he added, "By the way, thanks. It was getting dark in that room."

AROUND THARBAD

Valandil and Mercatur walked into the Mithril Crown, a beautiful shop stocked with exquisite jewels. The shop's owner, Irimon, approached the two with a rather haughty expression. He was dressed in fine silk robes and adorned with some of his precious jewels. In a high voice he asked, "What do you two want?"

"Sir, we've heard about the problems you've been having and we want to help," said Valandil.

Irimon raised his nose and commanded, "I do not know what you are talking about and if you do not leave now, I will call the constable."

Valandil was about to counter, but Mercatur grabbed him and pulled him out of the shop. "What was that for?" Valandil asked.

Mercatur shrugged. "He's a weenie. It's not worth it. Let's go to the next shop."

At the shop, Herbs of Quality, Valandil and Mercatur browsed around the unusual herbs for a time before the owner, Aladil came out.

"Excuse me. Are you the owner?" asked Valandil.

Aladil smiled. "Why yes. How may I help you?"

"Sir, we've been told by a friend that you have recently been threatened by some group. We have been sent to help," Valandil told him.

Aladil became obviously frightened. "I...I... don't know what you are talking about."

Mercatur stepped forward. "Look, we're not the bad guys. We would just like to keep an eye on your shop. No cost to you."

Aladil nodded slowly. "That would be alright." Valandil nodded, and then he and Mercatur left as Aladil wiped the perspiration from his face and sat down.

Ibal, the owner of Ibal's Shoes on the South Bank confirmed the group's threats against him. He also confirmed Nomrel's description of their operation. "Is there anything else you can tell us?" asked Valandil.

Ibal thought for a moment. "Well, I think there was a fourth hooded man on the roof across the street just before the three came in the shop," he stated.

Mercatur stepped in. "I would like to set up an ambush in your shop. Would you be willing to let us do that?"

Ibal looked concerned. "There are only two of you."

Valandil nodded, but countered, "Sir, we are veterans of the war against Angmar. I even shot an arrow at Rogrog, the Warlord."

Ibal stepped back, impressed. "Rogrog? Well... um.. alright. Just let me know when."

Mercatur nodded. "Thanks. We'll get them."

Serinde, the owner of Serinde's Originals was also helpful. The attractive designer agreed to purchase supplies for the two and also felt certain that the short one of the group was a dwarf.

"A dwarf?" exclaimed Mercatur. He continued, "This is bad. I hate dwarves. They're tough little buggers. I can see now how Merwai got up the stuff to do this. I'll bet the dwarf is behind this." Valandil calmed him down and they thanked Serinde for her assistance.

Later, Valandil took the gold that was allocated for manpower and hired six able-bodied men and women. He stationed them at Serinde's and Nomrel's. Serinde was kind enough to outfit Valandil's hirelings with weapons and armor.

IBAL'S SHOES

Early one chilly morning, Valandil and Mercatur sat behind a closed kiosk on the Rath Romen, or Romen Road in front of Ibal's Shoes. They could see Ibal pacing nervously in the shop through the frosty window. Mercatur motioned for Ibal to sit and he did so. Their vantage point offered a view of the entire road and of the rooftops opposite the shop. Little did they know someone else was watching them.

Valandil and Mercatur were not disappointed. A hooded figure with a composite bow made his way across the tiled rooftops opposite the shop. Mercatur nodded. "That's my target. You get at least one of them in the shop." Valandil nodded in turn. A few minutes later, the three bagmen arrived and went into the shop. Valandil drew his long bow and notched one of the arrows that were given to him by Serinde.

Mercatur cocked his trusty crossbow.

Ibal could be seen inside handing money to one of the tall bagmen. Then the three turned to leave the shop.

Valandil tapped Mercatur's shoulder. "This is it." The three walked out of the shop and Mercatur fired a bolt into the chest of the man on the roof. The bolt sunk in up to the feathers and the man fell forward with a thud, dropping his bow into the street. Valandil shot an arrow into the small figure, but it broke with a clang. Mercatur laid his cross bow down and flung out his axe as Valandil drew his broadsword. The three bagmen, breath visible in the cold morning, also drew their weapons and threw off their hoods.

Merwai stared down Mercatur and sneered, "So big man, want to dance?"

The mercenary shot back, "Anytime, punk. Anytime." The dwarf was now revealed in dwarven-forged armor with a beautiful steel hammer and dwarven shield.

Valandil looked at the finely forged weapons of the dwarf and commented, "Oh boy." Ibal slammed his door shut and barred the windows. The icy streets were also rapidly cleared.

Merwai and the other tall Dunlending man warily circled Mercatur. Merwai occasionally feinted with his broadsword, but Mercatur stood, unblinking. The other man was more passive.

"Is that all you got?" Mercatur sneered.

On queue, Merwai and the other man lunged forward. Mercatur beat their swords down and swung his axe at the other man clad in soft leather armor. He brought his shield up and caught Mercatur's blow, but in the process his shield was split. He backed up and discarded the shield.

Merwai went back into a defensive stance. "Orcare, you alright?"

Orcare, steam rising from his body, wiped the sweat from his brow with his now free hand. "Yeah. This guy's dead meat."

The dwarf put on a fantastic display of hammer twirls and mock attacks. He clearly outclassed Valandil. Bravely, Valandil strode forward, head behind his shield. As Valandil began probing the dwarf's defenses, the armored runt launched a vicious assault. Raining blows down upon Valandil, his hammer appeared to be a blurry wheel, spinning furiously. Valandil warded off the blows with his shield, but could not even mount any attack through the ferocity of the hammer blows. Valandil's shield was soon dented and crushed in several areas. Valandil's arm was also quickly becoming numb. Under the assault, he steadily retreated backward toward the kiosk from which he had emerged with Mercatur.

Mercatur had problems of his own. He had managed to strike Orcare twice, causing a slight gash across the bandit's shoulder, but he too was being driven back toward the kiosk. The mercenary grabbed at several potted plants on the side of the road and hurled them at his two attackers to no avail. Alone, the two were no match for Mercatur, but they worked together and both wielded good weapons.

Growing concerned, the mercenary picked up another pot and threw it at Merwai, connecting with his face. Merwai grunted and fell to one knee. The mercenary took the opportunity to lunge forward and cut Orcare with his axe. The axe bit deeply into Orcare's side. Blood spurted out from the soft leather armor and Orcare fell to both knees. Orcare dropped his short sword and grabbed onto Mercatur's axe. Blood flowed from his nose and mouth. The angry mercenary gave him a kick in the face and Orcare fell backward, but took the axe with him.

Shaking his head, Merwai wiped the blood from his face. Seeing the situation, he rushed the now disarmed Mercatur, who quickly drew a dagger and parried. Merwai body checked Mercatur, who staggered back, crashing into the wooden kiosk. Flowers and plants fell down around him, showering him with dirt.

Valandil saw his comrade crash against the kiosk, but had desperate problems of his own. His shield was now useless and he tossed it away. The dwarf feinted high and then stuck low, hammering Valandil on the thigh. Valandil clocked the dwarf with his fist sending him back a step. The stunned soldier limped around the kiosk to catch his breath, but his left leg was entirely numb and sweaty steam rolled off of his body.

Mercatur threw a handful of dirt into Merwai's face, blinding him temporarily. As he was about to tackle Merwai, a bolt of fire hit the bandit. The bolt burst into flames sending sparks everywhere. Merwai was engulfed for a second and let out a howl that echoed down the street. The bandit's clothes caught flame and he fell to the ground batting at his shirt and face. Mercatur fell upon him, grabbing the burning shirt and plunged his dagger into Merwai's throat twice.

Valandil turned to see the dwarf rounding the kiosk. He could not out run the dwarf in his condition and swung desperately at the little guy. The dwarf easily parried, but just then a 'boom' was heard and then a howl. The dwarf hesitated and stepped back. Looking around the corner, the armored runt saw Mercatur finish Merwai off.

Just then, the dwarf lit up with electrical energy as if hit by a lightning bolt. The tough bandit jolted in spasms as electricity ran over his body. When the energy had dissipated, smoke rolled off of his armor. The dwarf shook his head and with a grunt and ran down the street. Valandil attempted to pursue, but his leg collapsed fro under him. Mercatur did not even see the dwarf depart.

As Valandil attempted to rise, he looked to see a hand outstretched. A Dunadan woman of stern beauty stood there, dressed in a blue robe with a blue cap over her brown hair. Valandil accepted the hand and the woman spoke, "It appeared that you were in grave trouble. I am Silmarien. We have been watching over you for some time and have a stake in your success. Your friends will be along shortly." Having spoken, Silmarien vanished into thin air. Valandil blinked. He sat down and scratched his head. The image of Silmarien's face and the wyvern symbol on her cap were etched into his memory.

Moments later, Firiel and three other men ran down the street. Firiel saw Valandil and Mercatur sitting in the road with three bodies, one of which was smoldering. She ran to Valandil and hugged him. "Are you all right? A strange woman appeared and told me you were in grave danger." Two of the other men tended to Mercatur, while the third drew a bow and scanned the area. That man was dressed in fine chainmail armor and wore a forest green cloak. His features were finely chiseled, accented by a sharp black goatee.

Firiel pulled off Valandil's armor and placed a pungent herbal pack on his left thigh. The smell alone brought tears to Valandil's eyes. Mercatur stood, shaking off the two attendants. "Come on! The runt's getting away."

The armored man held up his gloved hand. "Don't worry. I can track that dwarf. It looks like he headed toward the Menatar Road."

Valandil also stood, feeling much better. He looked at Firiel. "I'm sorry. I was such a hothead. You've always been there for me."

Firiel hugged him again. "It's alright. We need to stick together during these times."

Mercatur shook his head slowly, pulling at his beard. "Alright, break it up. We got a dwarf to hunt."

The armored man was already heading up the road toward the Bank of Cardolan. He motioned to Mercatur. "He went north across the bridge." The mercenary followed quickly with Valandil limping along behind. Firiel and her two assistants brought up the rear. At the Ryncaras Tharbad or bridge gate, Valandil caught Mercatur. The huge, stone gate structure towered over the waters of the river Gwathlo, shadowing the group.

Valandil got Mercatur's attention. "Hey, did you see that woman back there at Ibal's? She was some kind of wizard or something."

Firiel chimed in. "She came to the Houses of Healing, too. She had some kind of lizard symbol on her cap."

Valandil corrected her. "It was a bronze wyvern."

Mercatur stopped suddenly and his brown eyes widened. "A bronze wyvern? That's the symbol of House Rhudainor of Rhudaur. They're all dead. I was there at the tower Tirthon when they all died. You must be mistaken." Valandil and Firiel looked at each other, wondering what had shaken Mercatur so much. The armored man waved the group up, urging them to hurry.

Firiel motioned to the man. "We're coming Amrith."

Valandil queried, "Who is he?"

"That's my cousin Amrith. He's the best ranger in all of Cardolan."

"I didn't know you had a cousin?"

"You didn't ask," she replied playfully.

Amrith turned left at the Rath Annún or Annun Road. He quickly began walking toward the docks. As they neared the docks, Amrith stopped and surveyed the area. As the group caught up, he knelt down on the road. "Sorry I haven't introduced myself, Amrith of the King's Rangers. I've been with Tardegil's men fighting those bastard Cultirith near the border. I got word that my cousin Firiel had been attacked in the streets, so I took my leave to return to the big city. I can see that things have gone downhill." Mercatur was about to speak when Amrith rose and pointed to an abandoned warehouse on the docks.

15


	8. Seven Stars

THE ROYAL PALACE AT THALION – Girithron 1409 

The scarred and grizzled Captain Tardegil sat in the throne room of the King's House. He remembered the days in which he fought for King Tarastor nearly 100 years ago. Tardegil was old, even for a Dunedan, but he could still hold his own in a fight. Tardegil thoughtfully fingered a long pinkish scar running down his neck, which he received from the dagger of an Arthedan regular during a brawl in the King's Rest Inn in Bree back in 1407. The death of the King had weighed heavily on Tardegil, who now guarded the palace with 300 hand-picked men. His loyalties were solidly with the young Princess, but his mistrust of Nimhir made him unpredictable. The old captain looked at Ostoher's throne from his wooden chair. He still couldn't bring himself to sit in it. Hopefully, it would soon be occupied by a young woman.

Tardegil's quartermaster, Talremis entered. "Sir, more grain has come in from Hir Tinare. The men are storing it as we speak."

Tardegil stood slowly, rubbing his back. "Good news. A fine Yüle gift from a fine warrior. Talremis, any new raids from Rhudaur?"

The quartermaster shook his head. "I think they have gone into winter quarters. They took enough of a licking last time we met them."

Tardegil smiled. "Aye, lad, we sent their Cultirith rangers packing. Our Raggers are still a force to be feared."

Tardegil had referred to the Ragh Crann-Sleagha, Dunnish for Ranks of Pikes, affectionately known as the Raggers. There were over 300 Raggers defending Thalion, and they were considered the steel heart of the forces of Cardolan. Their professional pride was legendary and they were easily the finest heavy infantry in Endor. At the end of the Second Age in 3434, they held the flank of the Alliance against Sauron's forces after the rout of the Silvan Elves. More recently, in 1235 at Cameth Brin, the Army of Cardolan under Calimendil was caught by the orcs of Mount Gundabad. Calimendil was slain and the army surrounded. The Raggers, despite an exhausting day of heavy fighting, fought their way out of Cameth Brin through hordes of orcs. Finally, the bravery of the Raggers at the Barrow Downs saved the remnants of the Army of Cardolan and took a heavy toll on the forces of the Witch King. Their long, heavy pikes and thick steel hauberks were feared by any force.

Tardegil walked over to a map of Tharbad, which was up on one of the fine paneled walls of the Throne Room. He quietly remembered better days when lavish parties took place here and the room was full of handsome knights and beautiful ladies. Now, empty mugs of ale and full quivers of arrows sat on the exquisitely carved Royal Table. Tardegil mused out loud, "I wish Prince Braegil were here. He was always such a smart one." Snow could be seen falling lightly outside.

THE FORTRESS OF BARAD GIRITHLIN

A fierce wind howled outside the tower as inside Hir Girithlin paced along the reflecting pool on the ground level of the fortress. Dressed in gray robes of the Numenorean style, his massive frame cut an imposing figure. Two mithril daggers were thrust into his belt as a caution against would be assassins. Girithlin stopped and rested against the ten-foot tall red obelisk next to the pool and stroked his chin. It was time to turn up the heat.

After a few minutes Falathar entered with two of Girithlin's knights. Falathar smiled broadly. "Father, good news. Lamril is open to our offers."

The elder Girithlin returned the smile. "Excellent. Take the gold and weapons we have for him and see that they are delivered. Also, talk to Thrangull and find out where my payment is. This is unusual; the Gurth Rodyn is never late."

Falathar and the knights bowed. "By your leave," they said before departing. As they rode away toward Tharbad, the heptagonal shape of the tower could be seen in the fading light as a spike emerging from the earth.

THE SHOP OF DIRHAVEL THE ALCHEMIST

"You should not have gotten directly involved, Silmarien," chastised the tall, noble Dirhavel.

Silmarien turned sharply to the Alchemist. "I did what I had to do! Not getting involved cost me my lands, my home, and my family..." She stormed out onto the balcony where Dirhavel's complex telescope stood, looking heavenward. Dirhavel followed her out. His blue and violet robes matched the stars over Cardolan and together, they looked as though they were elves out of legend. Dirhavel started to speak, but Silmarien stopped him.

"Like you, I come from a noble family. I am the last of House Rhudainor. I let my brother Marendil, the last lord, perish because I did not get directly involved. If someone does not get directly involved, we will all perish! I know your experiments are important, but I have to do my work also. I would never compromise your work, never. So let me save a small part of Cardolan even if I could not save Rhudaur." Silmarien stood, looking up at the stars for guidance.

Dirhavel put his hand gently on her shoulder. He knew she was hurting over having to leave Rhudaur before the war. Her brother, Marendil and House Rhudainor took the brunt of the Witch-King's initial assault. Silmarien had heard of the invasion and left for Rhudaur after a time. Her delay caused her to arrive too late to save Marendil or their people. Silmarien's rage took a heavy toll on the enemy in Rhudaur, but that is another story.

Silmarien melted into Dirhavel's arms. He caressed her dark brown hair softly and whispered, "I'm sorry, I know you need to help. I was only worried about you." Silmarien nodded, choking back tears.

After some time, they went back into the shop. Dirhavel combed his jet black hair, while reading an ancient text on chemical properties.

Silmarien gazed into a mirror, which soon became misty. An image of the Princess appeared in the mirror. Silmarien motioned to Dirhavel. "Come here love, look at this."

THE DOCKS

Amrith moved cautiously toward the warehouse. No lights could be seen inside and daylight was rapidly fading into darkness. Mercatur moved in behind, crossbow at the ready. Valandil, Firiel, and her two attendants crouched behind several barrels across the street. The ranger held out his hand, stopping Mercatur from approaching the door. He examined the doorstep carefully and then looked up. "Trap... Don't step here."

Mercatur nodded. This guy seemed to know what he was doing. The battle at the kiosk and the discovery of a surviving member of House Rhudainor had put Mercatur in a pensive mood. He had a sudden flashback of the siege of Tirthon, where Marendil Rhudainor perished at the hand of some foul demon.

Mercatur shuddered.

Amrith drew out a long steel tool and inserted it between the door and the frame. He jiggled it for a minute and then slid it out. Then, he slowly opened the door and peeked inside. It was hard to see in the dark, but he could make out a number of boxes, barrels, and assorted goods. Mercatur entered and looked cautiously around. In the dark, he failed to see a trip wire that he had just snagged. "Damn, I hit something," he whispered.

Amrith moved up and checked it out. "Well, I guess the element of surprise is lost." Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Mercatur saw movement. He jumped just in time to avoid a stack of barrels as they came tumbling down. Amrith got hit with one barrel and shouted, "Oww! Damn, it's too dark." Valandil heard this and fired up his lantern.

Mercatur fired a bolt from his crossbow blindly to cover Amrith. A 'thunk' was heard as the bolt struck one of the wooden walls.

A voice was heard. "How did they find us, Thrangull? You said we were safe. You said we would be protected. I burned my shop for this."

Another voice answered, "Shut up, Barkwell you idiot."

Mercatur was listening for the location of the voices when an axe imbedded itself in a crate next to him. He ducked around some more barrels and let out a sigh of relief.

Valandil took cover at the entrance and let the light of his lantern shine in. The illumination revealed an average looking man holding a short sword and dagger. He was blinded by the intense light and shielded his face. Amrith saw him and fired and arrow into his chest. The man staggered back and hit the wall.

The dwarf popped out and threw another axe at Valandil, who ducked back around the entrance throwing the room back into darkness. Firiel then leaned around the corner and fired an arrow with her bow.

Barkwell cried, "Thrangull, I'm hit bad. Help me." He was answered with only silence. Barkwell gurgled again, "All right, I give up. Help me."

Amrith warily moved toward the sound of the voice. He came around the corner of crates to the source, but was met by something unexpected.

Mercatur heard a crash and the sounds of struggle. Valandil reentered the room with the lantern as Firiel also moved in with her bow ready. The mercenary moved in to see Amrith and the dwarf locked in a death grip. Barkwell was lying nearby gasping weakly and trying to pull the arrow from his chest.

Mercatur grinned broadly. "Bye, bye dwarfie." Thrangull looked up from his struggle with Amrith just in time to see a razor sharp, double-bladed axe sweep toward his head.

The ranger stood, wiping the blood from his face and clothing. "Oh man, I'm covered with this stuff. Did you have to lop his head off?" Mercatur laughed and put his foot on Barkwell's face. Firiel and Valandil rushed in.

Firiel asked, "Is everyone alr... Ohhh, look at all that blood." She saw Mercatur standing on the struggling Barkwell. "Hey, stop that. That poor man's dying."

Mercatur quipped, "And I'm trying to help him die." He shrugged and stepped off Barkwell's face. He walked over to the dwarf's headless body and went through the pockets.

Firiel sat down by Barkwell and soothed his wound. "I'm here to help you. I can't condone what you did, but that's for the authorities to decide." She deftly removed the arrow and applied an herbal pack and pressure to the wound.

Mercatur pulled a pouch from the dwarf's pocket and placed the axe and shield in a pile. He opened the pouch and displayed the numerous gold coins to Amrith and Valandil. Mercatur cooed, "Ohhh yeah, this is it baby."

THE ABANDONED WAREHOUSE

Mercatur finished counting the gold and put the piles of coins into a crate. "Just over four hundred gold coins by my count. That makes more than a hundred for each."

Firiel began to protest, but Valandil stopped her. "The money will do good. I'm giving my share to the Houses of Healing. Think of what two hundred gold coins could buy."

Firiel nodded in understanding. "I don't like this looting and pillaging, but you're right. We're going to make things better." Mercatur sealed the crate by hammering in some nails. He pointed to the crate and together they carried it back to the Houses of Healing.

THE SHANTYTOWN – Girithron 1409

Just outside the Annon Forn, or North Gate lay the shantytown. This tiny strip of land was now covered with squalid huts and tents. Blotches of snow covered the area adding misery to the plight of the refugees. For them, it was not a kind Yüle. Moans and wails could be heard among the coughing of the sick and diseased. Inside of one small hut a plot was being formulated.

The large, former blacksmith, Lamril stood at the head of a battered table. "Friends, my patron has come through for us. I have here both gold and weapons." Lamril motioned to two sacks and two crates near the entrance of the hut. The dirty men and women seated on the ground murmured in approval.

"Hoegwar, Pulg, open the crates," Lamril commanded. The two men sprung up and pulled the crate lids off. Within lay several dozen iron short swords, daggers, and spear heads. 'Ooohs' rose from the crowd as each stood in line to get his or her own weapon. The Royals would soon pay for leaving these desperate people to die outside of Tharbad. Hoegwar and Pulg stepped back, allowing the throng to grab weapons.

Hoegwar quietly commented to Pulg. "Girithlin is doing all our work. Our master didn't even have to spend one copper."

SOMEWHERE NORTH OF CARDOLAN

In an infernal hall with blood red vaulted ceilings sat a dark figure. His couch had the appearance of the gaping maw of a sea monster out of the darkest nightmare. A crown sat over two red eyes, but where a face and head should have been, there was only empty space. A black robe covered the body of the figure and an aura of evil permeated the hall.

To that figure's right stood a tall, plain-looking man. He was at least six foot, six inches in height, and was dressed in black robes with a black metal shoulder pad. He carried a solid wooden staff in his right hand. Next to him stood a blond male elf. He was dressed in green with a green cap and green cloak. His cap displayed the symbol of the skull and he carried a short brown staff.

Two others attended the dark figure as well. The first was some mutated monstrosity. A creature with goblin fangs and a canine snout within a mannish face. His long red hair was braided with copper chains. The other was a pretty female elf. She was dressed in blue with a black gauze veil over her face. Covering her wrists were black leather thongs woven in an intricate pattern.

The four bowed to the dark figure and the tall man spoke. "My King, I bring good news."

The dark figure raised a ghostly fist. "Our defeat has left our forces drained, but we are patient. I have endured years beyond count to vanquish our enemies. Speak, Angûlion. Tell me of your good news."

The Angûlion nodded, pointing to the female. "Our servant, Ulgarin has infiltrated the city of Tharbad in Cardolan. She advised me that her agents are in place and that the Cardolani fight among themselves. We will start a civil war without spending a single copper."

The dark figure stretched out his hand. "I am pleased. Come forward Ulgarin and receive my praise."

The lithe female moved forward and knelt before the figure. "You are most generous, Lord of Angmar," she cooed in a pleasing voice.

The Lord of Angmar held out his hand and a necklace of pearls appeared. "This is from your homeland of Helkanen. I thought you would like it." Ulgarin took it gently and caressed the many pearls. She placed the necklace over her head and let it lie around her neck. The iridescent pearls shone like the stars that Ulgarin loved so much.

The mutated creature raised his fist to the sky. "Soon, the kingdoms of our enemies will be ground into dust. I, Ulduin so swear." The Lord of Angmar nodded in satisfaction. Tiny fleas would soon bring down the fatted cow of Cardolan.

THE MERCHANT'S QUARTER AT THE SHOP OF HALFRED THE WEAPONSMITH

Halfred had been the weaponsmith to the Royal Family for over two decades and he had forged the weapons and armor for Ostoher and his sons. Business had been off since the end of the war with so many of the land's warriors killed in battle. Thus, the entry of Mercatur and Valandil caught his particular attention. The brawny Halfred approached the two. "Sirs, may I be of assistance?"

Mercatur put a sack of heavy items up on the counter and pulled out two throwing axes, a hammer, a shield, a suit of chainmail, and a helmet. Halfred's eyes widened. "Dwarven make. Very superior. I take it you're selling."

Mercatur nodded. "We could get one thousand gold for this. What will you give us?"

Halfred stroked his bearded chin. "Well, times are hard... Six hundred."

"Not enough. We had to pay for these."

"How about a trade?"

The mercenary thought for a moment. He looked at his partner, who nodded. Mercatur also nodded. The burly weaponsmith smiled and went to the back of his shop. He returned holding a broadsword, an axe, and two helmets. Halfred laid them on the counter and drew the sword from its sheath. The blade glistened in the daylight and the grip was wrapped in gold wire. The pommel bore a small jewel and the hilts were gilded in mithril.

Halfred smiled broadly. "This is a good one. I made this for Prince Braegil, but he never came back from the war to get it. It's made from Dwarven Adarcer. I paid a pretty copper for the materials."

He then removed the oiled leather sheath from the blade of the axe. It was a heavy, two-handed weapon with a spike at the tip and opposite the blade. Mercatur picked it up and saw his reflection in the blade and smelled the fine weapon oil. The balance was superb and the grip solid.

The helmets were made of superior steel, covering the head and back of the neck. A visor could be attached to the open face as well. Halfred measured each man's head for the fittings and stated that the helmets would be ready in two days. Both Mercatur and Valandil nodded, smiling like kids in a candy shop. They had some new toys to play with.

OUTSIDE OF THARBAD AT THE ANNON LINDAMEL GATE

The stone gatehouse, flanked by earthen ramparts was manned by ten members of the city watch. Their task was to observe the shantytown, report any suspicious activity there, and try to rescue any legitimate travelers assaulted by the mob. Unfortunately, with the small resources that were stationed there, only the first task was accomplished with any effectiveness.

Today, just before New Year, the snow fell in flurries. The cold of this winter was quite unusual for the area, and the people were sure that the Witch-King of Angmar had a hand in this. Little did they know, they were closer to the truth than any would care to admit.

One sentry, standing at the second level of the gatehouse, observed an angry mob working its way to the gate. He called down to his troop, "A mob is headed this way. I see more than four hundred."

The sergeant looked up and his eyes grew large in fear and shock. "Four hundred?" He pointed to another man drinking coffee. "Go get reinforcements, now! The rest of you, spears and bows. Move!" The other men scrambled for weapons while the coffee drinker sprinted for the Annon Forn, or North Gate.

The mob was closing in on the gatehouse as the watch deployed across the battlements, bows at the ready. Spears lay nearby to repel climbers. When the mob was within earshot, the sergeant called out, "You there, disperse. By orders of the Chancellor, I command you to disperse."

Lamril heard this and shouted angrily, "These people are starving and sick. Let us into the city!"

The sergeant shook his head. "Again, I command you to disperse or I'll fire on you."

"Then we'll have to enter by force!" Lamril shouted as he signaled his mob forward. The mob surged toward the gatehouse. Nine bows twanged and nine people fell. Still the mob came onward, driven by anger and desperation. Another volley of arrows struck the mob just as they crashed against the gatehouse throwing up ladders.

Several watchmen grabbed for their spears and thrust at the mobsters climbing up. Another volley of arrows pierced flesh and bone. Two mobsters had reached the top, but were skewered by spears and fell back over the gatehouse walls. A number of mobsters scaled the unmanned twenty-foot high earthen ramparts to flank the gatehouse. A watchman was grabbed by several mobsters at the wall and hurled over the gatehouse into the angry crowd. Another took a dagger to the throat.

Still, they fought on. The sergeant fired another arrow into the belly of a mobster just climbing over the wall. That man crumpled to the ground, but two men and a woman replaced him. The sergeant drew his broad sword as another watchman fell under four assailants. The sergeant lopped the arm off of one of them and turned to confront the three new attackers from the wall. His breath was coming out in gasps as the steam flowed from his mouth in the cold. Two more watchmen went down, surrounded by more than twelve mobsters. The sergeant ran.

Making his way downstairs, the sergeant was confronted by the inevitable. Lamril and thirty mobsters had already burst through the gate on the ground floor. They were waiting at the foot of the stair.

THE ANNON FORN

The watchman got the attention of the gate sergeant at the North Gate and told him of the mob. Dimly through the morning snow the defense of the Annon Lindamel could be seen. The gate sergeant roused the men and they quickly prepared for battle.

THE KING'S HOUSE

"What?" Nimhir gasped in horror.

Captain Guilrod bowed his head. "Your Grace, Lamril has broken through the Annon Lindamel with more than four hundred mobsters. I am mobilizing the troops. Already fifty from the Annon Forn have responded. I am setting up barricades along the Cherant Echor Canal. We will stop them."

Nimhir fumed. "I hope so. If they cross the canal, what's to stop them from crossing the North Bridge and looting this house?"

Guilrod replied, "We'll stop them."

xoxoxoxoxoxo

Nirnadel sat in her bedchambers reading a text written by her scholarly brother Braegil when she heard distant sounds of strife. Peering out of the northwest window she could see smoke coming from the north bank of the city. Her attention was then distracted by the sound of Baranor's voice coming from beyond the door.

"Everyone, this is serious. I want you all in full armor. If those mobsters get here, we are to defend the Princess with our lives. I want two of you with her at all times."

The sounds of metal on metal could be heard as the eight-man bodyguard donned helmet and armor. Nirnadel opened the rich mahogany doors revealing the warrior's preparations. "What is happening?" she asked.

Baranor and the men bowed. "Your Highness, a mob has broken through the city gates. They are headed this way. I have assigned two men to guard you. Please do as they request." The headstrong Princess began to balk at first, but seeing the seriousness in Baranor's eyes, she nodded. The two men escorted her back into the bedchamber and began to pull furniture away from the windows and stack arrows.

Baranor motioned to the other five. "The best defense is a good offense. Let's go to the front." They nodded and followed Baranor out the door to the north side of town.

THE CHERANT ECHOR CANAL

Captain Guilrod stood behind one of the barricades across the canal. The seventy men currently under his command had just thrown back an assault by the mobsters. Bodies lay in the street and some of the wounded crawled slowly in the snow. Guilrod wore a heavy chainmail hauberk over padded leather. His helmet was adorned with his family crest, a crane taking flight. He held his thick falchion in his right hand, directing the placement of more barricades. The weapon dripped blood into the white snow. The captain held a strong position and his strength was increasing steadily with the arrival of more and more troops. Meanwhile, Lamril's strength lessened with every failed assault, and he knew it. Lamril would try again soon.

The arrival of Eärdil and a dozen constables bolstered the ranks. The fact that Amrith, Valandil, Firiel, and Mercatur were among them made matters much better. Across the canal, the mob could be seen massing again. Guilrod counted about ninety troops. It would have to do.

"Archers at the ready!" Guilrod commanded.

The mob surged forward across the small bridges over the canal. The anger of the mob was evident. They were screaming.

"Down with the Royals!"

"Kill the oppressors!"

The troops fidgeted nervously as the distance closed. At no more than twenty feet Guilrod called, "fire!" A volley of arrows tore into the mass. Eärdil and Mercatur added crossbow bolts for good measure. The first rank of mobsters sagged as gull-feathered shafts found their marks. Firiel hated to take any life, but the mob left little choice. She was a passable archer and would demonstrate that several times that day.

A second wave of mobsters surged forward, brandishing pitchforks, spears, swords, and daggers. Another volley tore into them, but they kept coming, rage driving them onward. Many crashed into the barricades and began hand to hand fighting with the troops. Eärdil launched a bolt that passed clean through a man climbing the barricade. He then dropped his crossbow and drew his fine short sword. Two men confronted him, but he thrust his blade into the belly of the first and kicked the second man back over the barricade. He could see Mercatur hewing about with his new battle-axe.

The line was holding, but only with difficulty. Guilrod directed his reserve to plug any gaps. The nerve of the mob was beginning to waver. Suddenly, six men in the livery of King Ostoher arrived and plunged into the fray.

The troops cried, "Baranor...Baranor is with us!" and they hurled the mob back across the canal.

THE KING'S HOUSE

The sound of battle was rapidly becoming too much for Nirnadel to handle. She paced back and forth in her study while Anariel fretted. The two Royal Guards peered out of the window to try and get a view of the battle. Finally, Nirnadel had reached her limit. She stormed out of the study into her bedchamber. The others were too preoccupied to notice.

After a few minutes she reemerged. Anariel gasped, getting the attention of the two guards. Nirnadel was dressed in a chainmail shirt with breeches and a helmet displaying the Royal symbol of the seven stars. A short sword and dagger were sheathed at her belt, and her expression was as one not to be trifled with. The first guard turned around. "Your Highness, what do you think you are doing?"

She walked past him and opened the mahogany doors to the corridor. "We are going to defend our land."

Anariel gasped again.

The guards followed her down the corridor. "Your Highness, please return to the room. We don't want to make you return."

She glared at them and seethed, hand on her sword. "Touch us and we will kill you." The guards stepped back, letting her by. When she had passed, they looked at each other in awe.

The Princess walked right out of the front gate of the Bar Aran and turned north. Anariel ran up to the two guards and slapped them. "Go get her you fools!" They came to their senses and ran after her. Anariel fell to the floor, sobbing.

THE CHERANT ECHOR CANAL

The snow over the canal bridges had turned red as the bodies piled up. Baranor and Guilrod had broken the mob's attack. Now both sides sat across the canal from each other gearing up for the finale. Lamril had lost nearly half his strength and Guilrod continued to receive new men. Guilrod, Baranor, and Eärdil met behind one of the barricades.

"It's good to see you my friend," Eärdil said to Guilrod as they warmly shook hands.

Guilrod nodded. "I wish it were under better circumstances." Eärdil had once been a knight in the army, while Guilrod was once a Ragger. Both had seen many campaigns together and climbed the ranks through skill and bravery. Baranor was regarded as the greatest knight in Cardolan, and his strength was sorely needed here. The captain spoke, "Gentlemen, the balance has tipped. We can destroy them once and for all. I say we attack." Baranor and Eärdil nodded.

Baranor lowered his visor. "It is done then. Let us finish it." The three returned to their troops and prepared for the final assault.

On the other side of the bank, Lamril and his mob saw the troops mustering and knew what was coming. Their wounded numbered many dozen and their shrieks were unnerving. The mob was hastily constructing barricades of their own. They would make the oppressors pay dearly.

Suddenly, a small figure appeared on one of the barricades. A silver helm with the symbol of the King could be seen. Both sides became hushed. The figure spoke in an unnaturally loud voice.

"CITIZENS OF CARDOLAN LISTEN TO US! AS A KINGDOM AND AS A PEOPLE WE HAVE SUFFERED BEYOND MEASURE AT THE HANDS OF THE WITCH-KING! WE HAVE BEEN DRIVEN TO THE BRINK OF DESTRUCTION! IF WE KILL EACH OTHER, HE ALONE WILL BE VICTORIOUS AND WE WILL LOSE HUNDREDS OF YEARS OF PRECIOUS CIVILIZATION! WE COME NOW TO BEG...TO PLEAD WITH YOU ALL TO LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS. TO THE STARVING MASSES, WE SWEAR THAT YOU WILL RECEIVE ASSISTANCE. WE WILL PERSONALLY SEE TO IT. THE LAND CRIES OUT FOR HEALING. IF BLOOD IS ALL YOU WANT, THEN YOU MAY HAVE OURS!" Nirnadel shouted.

With that, she removed her helmet and leaped down onto the bridge across the canal. Before the stunned audience, she walked calmly to the center of the bridge between the two forces. Bows and spears were brandished on both sides for nearly a minute. The tension was unbearable. Finally, the sound of weapons falling on snow could be heard.

Lamril emerged, palms outward as a sign of peace. Guilrod did the same. They approached and knelt before the Princess. Each took her hand and kissed it.

Guilrod was in tears. "Your Highness, you are truly the sovereign of Cardolan."

Lamril nodded. "I accept your offer of assistance. We will return to our refuge to await your word."

Firiel gasped. "Haedorial was right. She is the Princess of Cardolan."

Mercatur sat in the snow, reeling from the sudden turn of events. "Whoa, this is heavy."

Slowly, the two sides withdrew. The mob returned to the shantytown and released the gate sergeant unharmed. The Royal Guards moved around the Princess, unsure whether to be outraged or proud. Baranor chose the latter. He knelt before the Princess and took her hand. "I knew this day would come, Your Highness. I watched you grow into a brave young woman and an able leader. You will rule one day and I know we will be better for it. Little do you know, but every time you went out, I was there."

Nirnadel gasped with realization. "Those men... the ones who were going to attack us."

Baranor nodded. "We are not the Royal Guard for nothing." The comment elicited laughter from all.

Nirnadel pulled the Royal Guard up. "Baranor and my brave guards, forgive us as we have been most unkind. Our father would be most proud of you all as are we."

13


	9. Yuletide Carols

THE KING'S HOUSE – Girithron 1409

The middle-aged jeweler Lothiriel sat in the waiting room of the Chancellor, Nimhir. What could the Chancellor want with her? She nervously paced, reading tourist pamphlets about Cardolan's beautiful southern shores.

Suddenly, the huge oak doors to the Chancellor's office opened and an attendant brought her in. She sat before Nimhir, who was reading some papers. His graying black hair was slicked back and he wore his finest robes of state. Lothiriel was shaking in her anticipation.

"Your Grace, I have come as you have bid me," she said slowly.

Nimhir looked down and smiled. "Thank you for coming so quickly. I have reviewed many jewelers in the land and I have determined that you are the most skilled."

Lothiriel smiled coyly. "Why thank you, Your Grace."

Nimhir continued, "The Princess Nirnadel is soon to reach the age in which she will become the Queen and rule this land. I wish to commission a tiara for such an occasion. You are the jeweler to create such a piece. Ten thousand pieces of gold have been reserved for such an event. I trust you will accept the commission."

Lothiriel's mouth fell open. "Why...why...um, yes of course. I will begin immediately." With that, she scurried off to her shop to begin the design specifications.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

"No way! I want to hear this again," said the enthralled Kaile, sitting before Firiel. Jonu and Haedorial also sat, hanging on Firiel's every word about the battle with the mob. Kaile had to hear the part about the Princess once more. Mercatur sat nearby, chewing on a turkey leg while Valandil put the gold into the house safe. Partway through Firiel's recounting of the battle, there was a knock on the door. Jonu rose to answer it.

He opened the door to reveal Nirnadel, stunningly dressed in a gown, woven with diamonds and sapphires. She was beyond radiant. She was also accompanied by her eight-man Royal Guard, dressed in dashing green surcoats.

Jonu fell to his knees. "Your Highness," he cried out.

The room fell silent as all knelt down. Nirnadel blushed. "Please friends, rise. We were Nel long before We were the Princess to you. I come as a friend." The group took their seats again as Nirnadel entered and sat in one of the chairs. She gave Firiel a parchment and asked her to open it. Firiel broke the wax seal of the King of Cardolan and unrolled the parchment.

She read it out loud: "To the Houses of Healing and all members associated with it. We, the Princess and heir to the throne of Cardolan, praise the heroic efforts of the House and its members in battling the ills and wounds of the citizenry of Tharbad. We also acknowledge the warrior bravery and skill of Valandil and Mercatur during the war against Angmar and in defense of the city.

To the Healer, Firiel, We grant an annual Royal stipend for use in the Houses of Healing. To Valandil, sergeant in the Royal Army and constable of Tharbad, We grant knighthood, with lands and men from the Royal domain. To Mercatur, mercenary in the service of Cardolan, We grant a fief within the Royal domain and leadership over the mercenaries of the Royal House. To Kaile, assistant to the Healer, We grant a position as lady in waiting in the Royal Chambers and assistant physician to the Royal House. To Jonu, Coru, and Omah, junior assistants to the Healer, We grant full educational privileges, compliments of the Royal House. To Haedorial, the bard, We grant the right to play at the Royal Banquet for the New Year, and every New Year thereafter."

The group gasped. They were honored by the generosity of the Princess. Nirnadel chimed in when they had settled down. "More important than lands, titles, or gold, we freely offer you all our friendship. Also, best of all, an invitation to the Royal Banquet for New Year." All nodded vigorously. During Ostoher's time, it was an event held annually which was usually reserved for the richest and finest of Cardolan. Nirnadel would change all of that. The Princess then stood, hugged each person in turn and then departed with her guards.

THE SHANTYTOWN

Lamril looked on as wagonloads of food and supplies arrived. The starving people stared in disbelief. Soldiers began passing out bundles of food and barrels of water. The people took them graciously, thanking the men and praising the Princess. Lamril took a handful of bread and cheese and stuffed it in his mouth. Chewing loudly, he proclaimed to Pulg, "This is all I have been asking for. A fair shake for these people."

Pulg nodded unenthusiastically. "Yeah, right." When Lamril had finished chewing, he dove into the throng of people and helped distribute the food. Pulg sat down on a roadside bench and shook his head. "The Master is going to be pissed."

THE ARGOND TOWER

In the magnificent Argond tower, twenty miles southwest of Tharbad, Celeph Calantir slipped in and out of consciousness. His fourth son and now heir to the barony, Varen, sat patiently nearby. Varen had met with Falathar Girithlin earlier that day, but was still unsure what to make of that meeting. Unlike his father and older brother Varek, Varen was friends with the Girithlins. Varen and Falathar had attended the military academy together as classmates. Celeph had always disliked the Girithlins, but did not oppose Varen's choice of friends. However, with the death of Varek, this friendship could change the political landscape of Cardolan.

Now, Celeph lay old and decrepit, dreaming dark dreams of days long past. In his youth long ago, Celeph was a page in the Army of King Calimendil as it laid siege to Cameth Brin in Rhudaur. He accompanied the King into the fortress when Calimendil and his vassal Anveleg, son of Dardan, took the lower levels. When the orcs of Mount Gundabad attacked and overran the Royal Pavilion, Celeph became separated from the King and was saved by Anveleg. In the ensuing civil war, Celeph grew into a squire and then a knight, fighting both for and against the surviving sons of Calimendil. Celeph also witnessed the warlord Dardan's fall into evil and his ultimate physical corruption by the Witch-King. He was also present after the warlord's fall from power and ignominious death in the dirty alley behind the Sign of the Orc's Head.

Celeph moaned quietly in his sleep, "Dardan is coming. Save yourselves." Varen took his father's hand and bowed his head.

THE FORTRESS OF BARAD GIRITHLIN

Mablung Girithlin stewed in his office on the third floor of the tower. His heavy frame was posited on the ornate desk, which was covered in maps and letters. The mob attack did not go as he had planned and he had just discovered that the Gurth Rodyn had been destroyed by a previously unknown group.

_I will make them pay… but not now… in time. There are more important tasks at hand._

Girithlin had a sudden inspiration. He sat down at the desk and took out a quill. Dipping it in ink, he began to draft a letter. The letter took longer than half and hour to write, but when he was done, he folded it and dripped wax over the edges to seal it. He then pressed his heavy ring on the wax to impart the seal of House Girithlin.

Mablung sauntered down the iron stairway past two guards and then to Falathar's room. He beat at the door calling, "Falathar, come here!"

His dutiful son opened the oak door and replied, "Yes, father?"

With a serious expression, Mablung handed his son the letter, telling him, "Take this letter to Nimhir. It is an introduction to meet the Princess. You are going to get married."

Falathar blinked. "Married? Why of course, father. As you wish."

Mablung clapped his son on the back. "Get dressed. You leave immediately." Falathar retreated back into his room and began to don his riding gear.

THE CITY OF FORNOST ERAIN IN ARTHEDAIN – Girithron 1409

The young King Araphor sat uneasily on his throne before the King's Council, the Lord Commander, the Captain of the Palace Guard, and the Seers and Guardians of the Palantíri. The adolescent monarch was besieged by rules and edicts, which he had to enact to govern the kingdom. He felt lost and out of control. The young man had fought bravely in defense of the capitol of Annúminas. When that city was sacked by the armies of the Witch-King, he fought in the rear guard to allow the Royal Family and people of Annuminas to escape. With the death of his father, it all became so complex. His father was an able and experienced statesman and warrior. Young Araphor longed for the simplicity of the battlefield.

Most of the Arthedan Court nodded in agreement with the letter sent to Cardolan a month ago. Araphor had his doubts and the Court felt he needed convincing. The regal Artos Tarma, Lord of the powerful House Tarma and head council member took the floor. "My King, we have been gravely weakened by the war with Angmar. A union between our two lands is only right and natural. Let us bring back Arnor, the Kingdom of old. This would ensure our survival." Many of the lords and ladies nodded.

One of the seers, however, spoke out, "I Ar-Elon, one of the High Seers and guardians of the Palantír, oppose this foolish action. Cardolan is weakened and dying. If we assume their burdens, we will weaken and die as well." Many others agreed with the seer also known as Malborn. Malborn continued, "I also hear that the heir to the throne of Cardolan is a spoiled brat who is uglier than a toad. Surely, My King does not want such a horrible child to be his bride?"

Araphor's young brow furrowed. "You are correct Malborn. We do not wish such a thing to happen. Therefore it is our will that we visit the Princess of Cardolan to make that determination."

Malborn started to speak, "But My King-"

Araphor cut him off. "We appreciate your concern, so we must see her for ourselves. We are not thrilled with the idea of marriage, but if the Princess is at least a respectable person, a union may benefit our two lands."

Malborn's face darkened. "My King, this is a mistake. I have looked into the Palantír and can prophesy disaster for you if you even meet this disgusting girl."

Araphor nodded impatiently. He never put as much stock in the seers as his father did. It all seemed so unreal. A sword and a bow, well, that was real.

Artos Tarma smiled. "My King, that is a wise choice. We cannot all wed such beautiful brides as we might chose. I for one would like to accompany you to Cardolan. The King needs an adequate guard." Many of the finest warriors stepped forward.

Malborn, beyond rage, slipped out of the Royal Hall into the thick and gathering snow.

THE KING'S HOUSE ON THE DAY OF NEW YEAR – Yearsend 1410

The House had been lavishly decorated. Colored lanterns and candles lit the premises. There were even some ancient enchanted lights blinking near the entrance to the house. There was a true joy in the Bar Aran. A light sprinkling of snow gave the appearance of purity and muffled the harsh sounds of the street. In the growing darkness, guests began to arrive for the Royal Banquet. Jugglers and players pranced about in the courtyard, entertaining guard and guest alike. Inside the main hall, Haedorial strummed his lute, singing of the downfall of Númenor. He was dressed in his finest outfit, a fur-lined tunic and a sable cloak, while his boots were of supple leather. His wife sat in the audience, beaming with pride.

Ciramir, the Gondorian Legate, also sat in his best attire. Ciramir was deep in thought, concerned with the events of the recent past. He had made his superiors in Osgilliath aware of the war and following crisis. He had been instrumental in bringing food and aid up from the south to ease the famine. The legate breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps Cardolan could recover and continue to serve as one of the leading trade partners with Gondor. Meanwhile, the contingent of Gondorian knights wandered about, viewing the many paintings and sculptures in the hall and on the grounds.

Duin Tinare sat with his family listening to Haedorial's song. Tinare had also pledged food and supplies to the people of Tharbad. His position and prestige had grown great recently as a result and he felt it was time to take advantage of it. He had heard of Girithlin's idea to have his son court the Princess.

_Perhaps my son Ostomir would make a better suitor._

Eärdil stood by the punch bowl, drinking with some of his constables. His wife and children sat in the audience listening to Haedorial. His wife Eärwen, was infinitely glad that her husband could take a much needed rest. Their children gleefully romped around the Royal Hall.

One new face in the crowd was Annael, the new Hir of Feotar. He was relatively young and strong of body, if not particularly handsome. It was said that Annael was an ambitious man who had the intelligence to match.

The entry of Firiel, Valandil, Mercatur, and the staff of the Houses of Healing brought a warm welcome from the occupants of the Royal Hall. Firiel wore a dress of sea blue and green, created by her elven grandmother in Lindon. It was a marvelous, form fitting dress that accentuated her platinum blonde hair. Valandil wore a surcoat of a knight of the Royal House over a silk tunic. Even Mercatur had his hair styled and his beard trimmed. He too, wore a distinctive surcoat of a captain of mercenaries. Kaile, already in the service of the Princess, greeted them at the door with a warm hug.

They mingled with the other guests, renewing old friendships and establishing new ones. When Haedorial had ended his tale, the door guard announced the arrival of Falathar Girithlin. Falathar was dressed to the hilt. He wore a fur-lined hat and cape with a plumed shirt and knickers. His long black hair was slicked back and his goatee finely trimmed. He carried with him a letter, which he displayed to the guard. He was escorted through the hall and into the Chancellor's chambers. Duin cautiously noted the event and knew what this must be about. Looking around the hall, he noticed his distant relative, Firiel Halatani. It had been years since he had seen her. It was time to catch up.

The guard spoke quietly to Nimhir. "Your Grace, Falathar Girithlin is requesting to see you. He brings an important letter from his father."

The Chancellor nodded and dismissed the guard. This was troubling. He could send Falathar away, but that would be a grave insult to a very powerful family. If he saw Falathar, Mablung's requests could be outrageous and he might end up insulting them anyway.

Nimhir groaned, "Damn you Mablung," as he rose and opened the door to his reception area. A warm smile instantly came to the experienced politician's face. "Welcome Falathar. To what do I owe this honor."

Falathar replied in a lackluster monotone. "Your Grace, my father wishes to arrange a marriage between the Princess and I. He says it would be most advantageous for the kingdom."

Nimhir blinked. That scoundrel Girithlin had now placed him in a precarious position. The Girithlins were indeed very powerful and little could be accomplished without their support. Denying Falathar the opportunity to court Nirnadel would also be a grave insult. However, allowing Falathar to marry her would give effective rule of the kingdom to Mablung.

After a moments thought, Nimhir replied, "I see. The Princess is still only a girl. Does this not matter to you?"

Falathar shook his head. "No, Your Grace. My father has spoken. I would like to meet the Princess to begin courting her."

Nimhir sighed. He could not openly afford to insult the Girithlins. He nodded. "Very well. She will be entering the Royal Hall soon." Falathar thanked him and departed. The young man, though obedient to his father, was not particularly thrilled by the idea of marrying a complete stranger.

As the sun set into darkness, the musicians began a Royal fanfare the like which had not been heard in the hall in a long time. The massive double doors to the Royal Chambers opened with a flourish. The eight men of the Royal Guard formed two lines into the hall. Nirnadel entered, wearing the fabulous gown that her mother wore during Ostoher's coronation. She beamed with joy and her smile captured the hearts of all in the room. Kaile and Anariel walked beside her sprinkling rose petals before her.

As she passed Firiel, the Healer gasped. "You look stunning!"

Nirnadel smiled back. "This is so uncomfortable. We prefer my tunic and breeches." Both had a good laugh. Nimhir emerged, smiling to all and waving. Each patron in turn knelt before Nirnadel and took her hand. When Falathar knelt down he took Nirnadel's hand. He then looked up into her eyes and his heart left him. Unable to speak, he stared up into her gray eyes: gray like the storm clouds.

Nirnadel blushed after a minute. "Kind sir, We wish to know who you are. You who are unable to let go of our hand."

Falathar stuttered, "Uh, sorry. I am Falathar Girithlin, son of Mablung the Hir of Girithlin."

Nirnadel's smile melted him.

"May we have our hand back, kind Falathar?" she asked.

He quickly let go. "Uh, sorry," he replied.

Duin stroked his chin. This was going to be trouble. Nimhir caught his attention. They were both on the same page.

When the introductions were completed, Haedorial lowered the lights and began the musical light show. The musicians began a piece by Elurin, an elven bard from Imladris. Lights began to pulsate around the hall, throwing reds, greens, blues, and yellows everywhere to the delight of the audience.

As the lights danced and the music played, Firiel gazed at Valandil. They had been through a lot together. He was strong, and brave, and true...and he was also so handsome. She stroked his face and as he turned she grasped his cheeks and kissed him. Valandil's eyes grew in surprise at first, but then he quickly gave into the moment.

Watching the show, Mercatur tapped him, saying, "Hey, check this out..." He quickly stopped himself as he noticed the two in an embrace. He threw up his hands. "I knew this was going to happen...'guess I'll have to find a new partner."

When the lights came back on, Falathar approached Nimhir and Nirnadel. He excitedly addressed Nimhir. "Your Grace, please express our offer to the Princess."

Nimhir sighed. "Your Highness, Falathar Girithlin has expressed an interest in courting you for the purpose of marriage."

Nirnadel recoiled. "Marriage? What is this?"

Falathar went to his knee again. "Your Highness, before this night I knew not what beauty was, but tonight you have captured me."

Nirnadel blinked. "Ummm, you are referring to Us?"

He nodded. Nimhir leaned over and whispered into her ear, "Do not insult him. Let him talk for a while. It will work to our advantage." Nirnadel trusted her 'uncle'.

She smiled at Falathar. "Well, umm, We see. The talk of marriage is so sudden. Perhaps you can tell me more of yourself at the fireworks show," she said, leading them to the courtyard.

Falathar babbled on as the rockets flew into the sky and burst with many brilliant colors. Amid the booms and pops he spoke of his horse, his room, even his frog collection. Nirnadel smiled patiently at him while occasionally looking up to see the bursts of fireworks. At the end of the courtyard an old man in a gray cloak and hat carefully lit the fuses of the rockets. The old man looked up at Nirnadel with a twinkle in his eye before he went back to lighting the fuses. The finale to the show left the audience thunderstruck. Multiple rockets went off at once, bursting into the pattern of a dancing dragon. As the smoke and sparks slowly cleared, Nirnadel could hear the faint buzz of Falathar's voice. She gazed at the fading image of the dragon in the sky and said quietly, "Oh, how wonderful."

Falathar, thinking she was talking to him, replied, "Why thank you. I do try to stay up on the latest trends."

The old man adjusted his wide-brimmed gray hat and picked up his staff. Having completed his task, he departed the Royal House and headed east toward the thieves quarters. He walked over unconscious drug users and past ruffians in the street, but no one seemed to notice his passing. He stopped in front of a small, fearful-looking shop with tiny windows. Dim lighting could be seen within and the man tapped at the door with his staff. The door opened and he entered.

Within sat Silmarien in a violet robe bearing the golden wyvern of House Rhudainor. She smiled up at the old man who returned the favor. His bushy eyebrows stuck out like quills and he looked quite comical. He pulled up a chair and sat beside her.

"Greetings, Silmarien. Things look much better here than they appeared in your letter."

"Well, old man, a sudden turn of events has improved the landscape," she replied. Then somewhat sheepishly she added, "I decided to get directly involved." The old man furrowed his brow. He mulled it over for some time before answering her.

"Things seem to have turned out well. I know it would have been useless to caution you. You will always do as you please. I can only ask you to be careful."

"You know I always am," she replied.

"Hah. Well, just the same... Be careful," he lectured as he produced a tome and several vials. He passed them to Silmarien, instructing, "These are for you from the Council. Read the tome and it will tell you what to do." She accepted the gifts and thanked him.

With that, he walked purposefully toward the door. "I won't be seeing you for a while. I have business in the south," he told her and went back out into the night.

Silmarien pursed her lips. "Take care old man. I will miss you."

Back at the Bar Aran, Firiel and Valandil twirled to the rhythms of the musicians. They were lost in each other's gaze. Mercatur gnawed on a turkey leg while inspecting a bust of King Calimendil. Nimhir waltzed with Nirnadel, who laughed with gleeful abandon. The Chancellor thought sadly that this was too much like the old days; days in which there was a King and there was peace. He remembered the Princess as a little girl, running through the halls, giggling with pleasure. How simple things were back then. Back then, before war, death, and famine had thrust him into the most powerful and responsible position in Cardolan.

After a handful of dances, Nimhir became winded. Nirnadel tugged at his neatly groomed goatee, saying, "Nimhir, you are getting old. We remember when you could last the whole night on the floor."

Nimhir laughed. "Not so old to where I still can't pick you up," he replied, lifting her off the floor. Nirnadel treasured this time and wished it would never end.

But, as always, time marches mercilessly on.

THE NORTH ROAD, ON THE BORDER OF CARDOLAN

The snow fell lightly as King Araphor and forty Arequain, or Royal Knights, rode south along the North Road. They were quickly nearing the border of Cardolan. The landscape was painted a pristine white, with snow covered pines and hills as far as the eye could see. The sound of muffled hoofbeats crunching in the snow added to the wintry setting.

A mile ahead, a group of orcs lay in wait. They were members of the highly mobile Uroth-burm tribe who rode wolves into battle. They had suffered heavily during the 1409 war and could now only scrape together fifty warriors. They had been waiting in the cold for more than a day, and were beginning to lose confidence in the intelligence that they had received.

"Aggh, you can't trust those mystic types. They're all liars and thieves," said one.

"What do you know? You're a liar and thief," shot another.

"That's how I know," responded the first. They started to fight, but the leader pulled them apart.

He shouted, "You rats. The boss sez we gotta be out here to take out the King; so here we are. I hear we got info from an insider, someone who wants to stop their trip. Well, we're going to stop them and get paid for it." The orcs rattled their scimitars and spears while their wolf mounts snarled.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

The Arthedan riders continued on for a time before Artos Tarma reined in his horse. The rest of the party followed suit as they had all come to trust Tarma's instincts. Tarma had stood beside young Araphor in the rear guard at Annuminas and his quick thinking had no doubt saved the young man's life. Tarma stood in the saddle, his blue chainmail glistening in the evening sun. He wore a black steel helmet, shaped like a bear's head with two beautiful jewels set in the eye sockets.

Araphor walked his horse over to Artos. "What is it? I know that look." Araphor's black scale plate armor bore the circle of seven white, six-pointed stars, emblazoned on the breastplate. He wore a white cloak over the armor that was lined in gray fur. Artos raised his hand, silencing the King. He scanned around, noting inconsistencies in the landscape. Something was out there.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

The Uroth-burm were finally rewarded by the soft sound of hoofbeats in the distance. The orcs slobbered with glee: their enemies were approaching. From their hiding spot in the forest, they readied their spears for a charge. The wolves could already smell raw horseflesh. They were soon rewarded by the sight of armored men riding through the snow. When the men had closed to about four hundred feet in distance, the leader snarled, "Slaughter them all. Today, we feast!" Their wolf mounts poured out of the forest with orcs couching their spears. They threw up a huge spray of snow.

Artos pointed at the orcs. "Here they come, lads. To your bows. Shoot for the wolves!" The elite Arthedan knights were superb horse archers and they quickly raised composite bows to meet the threat. Tarma's tactical reasoning had placed the orcs at a severe disadvantage. A volley of arrows struck the orc onslaught and fourteen wolves crashed into the snow. Their orc riders tumbled over their bodies. The thick snow slowed the movement of both wolf and horse. This gave the knights time to fire again as they cantered their horses away from the orcs. Another volley tore into the attackers and twelve more wolves fell into the snow. Some wolves could be seen writhing in the snow, leaving bloody imprints. Others, pierced with arrows, ran off into the woods. Fallen orcs were also standing up, some trudging forward toward the knights, others fleeing back into the woods.

The momentum of the orc charge faltered. Another volley struck the orcs, felling both wolves and riders. Ten more were out of the fight and the remaining orcs wheeled their mounts to flee. Araphor spotted the orc chief fifty feet away and lined him up with his bow. A steel-tipped arrow flew straight into the orc's open mouth. As he fell from the wolf, his followers broke and ran. Artos called off any pursuit.

The orcs would go hungry today.

Araphor was exhilarated after such an easy victory. He would indeed live up to the status of his father. Later, the King contemplated the words of Malborn, but shook them off. Still, he could not get the image of a fat, warty Princess of Cardolan he was shown in the Palantír out of his mind.

THE PALACE AT THALION – Narwain 1410

Tardegil had heard of the recent events in Tharbad and his mood brightened. Perhaps the Princess and the Chancellor would return to Thalion. With that in mind, he had his men begin to clean the palace and restore the grounds. He had even shaved the perpetual stubble that covered his face.

Suddenly, Talremis entered. "Captain, there are riders approaching. About forty in number bearing the banner of Arthedain." Tardegil stood up quickly, popping creaky old joints. He gazed out the window seeing the knights approach. Was this Arthedain's attempt to capitalize on Cardolan's weakness?

The old captain instructed Talremis, "Get the Raggers ready."

Artos approached the palace holding the banner of truce and the banner of Arthedain. He walked his horse slowly through the snow. He could see the palace set atop a sloped mound made of alabaster and tourmaline with an eight-foot wall surrounding the complex. A group of pikemen was forming near the wall with weapons pointed in his direction, so he stopped thirty feet in front of them.

"Brave soldiers of Cardolan, we come in peace. I am Artos Tarma of House Tarma and the King's Herald. King Araphor of Arthedain requests an audience with Chancellor Nimhir," he spoke.

An old warrior, dressed in heavy chainmail replied, "Sir Tarma, how do I know that this is not a trick. I have fought you Arthedans before."

The King trotted up beside Tarma. "Because We, the King of Arthedain, have come personally to show our intentions." The King dismounted and walked forward showing the palms of his hands.

Tardegil ordered the men to lower their weapons. He moved past his men and met with Araphor. He looked at the young man and nodded. "Very well. You are welcome here at the palace of Thalion. I must inform you that Nimhir is in Tharbad. I am sorry that your travels must endure another day."

The King replied, "We thank you for your hospitality. If we may rest here for the evening and then continue on tomorrow, We would be most grateful." The captain nodded, ushering the Arthedan knights into the palace.

THE HOUSES OF HEALING

The morning after Yüle revealed a thin layer of snow on the ground around the city. Icicles hung from the roof of the Houses of Healing. Firiel rose and yawned. She donned a robe and walked over to a pitcher of water and poured two glasses. "Time to get up. It's getting late," she said sweetly to a form hidden under the quilt in her bed. Valandil pulled the quilt off from over his head and ruffled his dark hair. He blinked several times in the morning sun as Firiel slid back into bed with the two glasses. They thirstily drank the water and set the glasses down.

Valandil took Firiel into his arms. "You shouldn't have gotten dressed so quickly," he said slyly, pulling her robe back off.

THE FORTRESS OF CARN DÛM

In the Witch-King's mountain fortress, some research was taking place. The Lord of Angmar stood at a stone bookshelf while reading a large text. Six guards from his elite Hoerk regiment stood outside the hall. Two mages sat at one of the stone desks perusing other volumes. Ulgarin knelt at the entrance to the hall awaiting judgment from her master. The plot involving the rioters in Tharbad had failed and she shook in unholy terror knowing what awaited her. She had seen the nearby Hall of Hidden Pains, where victims were horribly tortured in their dreams. This form of pain left no mark on the body, but also left the victims quite insane.

When the Witch-King had put the text back on the shelf, the darkly beautiful elf scurried over to him, prostrating herself at his feet. "Forgive me, lord. My spies in Tharbad told me that they would be successful. Don't put me in the Hall of Pain, please," she begged, nearly in tears. The Lord of Angmar appeared not to notice. In the eons of his existence he had taken on a different, inhuman, perspective.

"Have you heard of the Master Spell Texts and Rune Books of Annúminas?" he asked no one in particular in his unearthly wraithlike voice.

She blinked, wiping tears from her eyes. "Uhh, what was that again?" She exuded fear and surprise.

"The Master Spell Texts and Rune Books of Annúminas; have you heard of them?" he asked again in a calm monotone.

"Uhhh, no... no I haven't," she replied, somewhat confused.

The Witch-King walked over to another book and pulled it out. "Don't worry about Tharbad. These things happen. I am not like your last boss. If I killed everyone who failed, I wouldn't have anyone left. What I want you to do is to contact our man in Arthedain and arrange to acquire the Master Spell Texts and Rune Books of Annuminas. Get Ulduin to help you." Ulgarin wiped the perspiration from her brow and palms. She bowed and left. She hurried down the hall to find Ulduin. She would not fail this time.


	10. The Court of King Araphor

THE ROYAL HOUSE – Narwain 1410 

The city was buzzing with rumors concerning the arrival of the King of Arthedain. People were in the streets near the Royal Quarter, trying to get a glimpse of the young king. From within the Bar Aran, Nimhir frantically made preparations to receive Araphor. The King and his knights sat on feldstools in the Royal Hall, awaiting their hosts. Araphor bore the Sceptre of Annúminas, a four-foot, plain silver rod, carved with a spiral of Tengwar letters depicting the history of Tuor and Idril and the Prophecy of Huor. He also wore the Shards of Narsil, the sword broken by none other than Sauron, at his belt. Several servants brought the delegation some refreshments.

A herald announced the entry of Chancellor Nimhir and all but Araphor rose. Nimhir approached Araphor and knelt before the King. "Your Highness, you grace us with your visit. To what do we owe this honor?" he asked.

The King bade him to rise. "Kind Nimhir, we are here concerning the letter We sent to Cardolan last month. Have you had time to consider our proposal?"

Chancellor Nimhir nodded. "A permanent alliance... Yes, it would be most advantageous to our two kingdoms."

Araphor continued, "The Council of Arthedain has met and we have come to ask not only an alliance, but a permanent union. A reforging of the Kingdom of Arnor."

Nimhir gasped. "The Kingdom of Arnor. Why that name has not been heard here for five hundred years. What do you propose?" Nimhir asked, already knowing what Araphor would ask.

The King hesitated a moment, then spoke. "We propose... We ask for a marriage to be arranged between ourselves and Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess of Cardolan."

Nimhir nodded. "I see. The Princess has many suitors. It will have to be up to her."

"Then we will just have to meet her."

Nimhir had left to find the Princess and the Arthedan group waited. Artos commented sympathetically to Araphor. "Who knows, maybe some other slob will get to marry her. You know... she can't be that bad looking. Besides, even Haros has learned to live with his wife," he jested, pointing at another knight. Haros Eketta was a wealthy knight, who had married into money. His wife's ugliness was legendary in Arthedain and Haros took great offense to any negative comments. He had been in twelve duels in the last five years, being victorious in every one. Araphor nodded and prepared for the worst.

The great double doors to the Royal Hall opened and the herald announced the entry of Her Royal Highness, Crown Princess of Cardolan, Nirnadel. Kaile lead the way, wearing a pink silk dress. She bowed before the knights. Artos elbowed Araphor in the ribs. "She's not bad. Actually, she's quite attractive." Araphor barely heard Artos as his attention was grabbed by the angel who followed Kaile.

Araphor replied, "We don't think that is her."

Artos watched Nirnadel enter. "Whoa, what was Malborn talking about. This cannot be the same Princess." Nirnadel glided across the floor and curtsied before Araphor.

The young King knelt before her. "This cannot be, surely you are not Nirnadel, the Princess of Cardolan?"

The Princess blushed. "Good King Araphor, why do you ask? Surely you have heard the herald." King Araphor scratched his head, remembering the vision that Malborn had shown him before he departed: the 'vision' of the Princess, bloated and scabby. Araphor shook his head: those seers needed to fix their Palantíri.

The pair wandered the Royal Gardens talking and laughing. Anariel and Kaile followed close behind, seeing that nothing improper happened. Araphor was confident and humorous, as well as charming. Nirnadel asked about his part in the war and the fall of Annúminas. Araphor told her gravely about the sack of the capitol and of the death of his father. He told her of how he missed his father and how lost he felt as King. Nirnadel nodded, knowing how he felt. Several strides behind, Kaile thought excitedly that there was a definite chemistry between the two.

They sat together on a swing beneath a large birch tree. Araphor looked about. "Your house and lands are most fair. As you know, We are offering marriage to strengthen our kingdoms. We are not asking for any answer right now. Please take time to get to know us. We are both young and have our whole lives ahead of us."

Nirnadel sighed. "Marriage is such a distant thought for Us, good King. We enjoy the pleasure of your company and would gladly get to know you better. As for marriage, let Us think on it."

Araphor smiled. "Fair enough... One moment... Would Your Highness be opposed to a visit to our fair city of Fornost?"

Nirnadel brightened, "We indeed not be opposed. After all, We have never been beyond the borders of Cardolan. When can we go?"

Araphor jumped up, laughing. "Why, right away of course. We will leave tomorrow."

Nirnadel joined in the laughing, taking Araphor's hands. "Splendid... simply splendid."

Later, in the Chancellor's Office, Nimhir sprayed tea from his mouth across his desk. Coughing, he spoke, "What? Go to Arthedain? You cannot be serious?"

Nirnadel smiled. "Good uncle, of course we are serious. I have Araphor's word that we will be well protected. We shall bring our personal guards and staff for good measure. Do not worry uncle, everything will be fine. Think of it as a diplomatic visit."

Nimhir scratched his head and sighed. "Your Highness, you do not know how important you are to both myself and the kingdom. If something were to happen to you, I do not know what I would do."

Nirnadel put on her most pleading expression. "Oh, please..."

Nimhir couldn't look her in the eye. "I will speak to King Araphor." The Princess' expression changed to a huge grin. Nimhir could deny her nothing.

The Chancellor of the Realm sat with the King of Arthedain. Nimhir looked intently at the young sovereign. "I feel that you are an honest king. I will grant the Princess her request to travel to your lands. However, I will hold you accountable for her safety. Do I make myself clear?" he said gravely.

The King nodded. "I will hold the safety of Nirnadel no less than my own. She will have the might of my kingdom to defend her. This, I swear."

News of the Princess' travel spread quickly as an entourage was formed to accompany her. Her eight-man Royal Guard would make the trip, along with Amrith. Firiel was offered a chance to join the group, but declined to stay with the Houses of Healing. Valandil and Mercatur were chosen to go, along with Kaile and Anariel. Haedorial would be the Princess' herald. Each of the noble houses were tasked to send two representatives. The new Hir of Ethir Gwathlo sent two foot soldiers. Ostomir Tinare and his squire volunteered. Falathar Girithlin and his squire readily accepted. Celeph Calantir also sent two foot soldiers. Thangar Eredoriath and his squire stepped forward. Annael Feotar and his brother agreed to join. Finally, two dour knights from Tyrn Gorthad signed up.

Given the state of the kingdom, the fact that the procession was ready to depart in twenty-four hours was nothing short of miraculous. Araphor led his forty knights into Menetar Street in front of the Bar Aran to cheering crowds. The sun was shining, melting off some of the snow. Following them was the Princess' entourage, dressed in their finest and marching or riding along. In the center sat the Princess atop a snowy white horse. Her sable cloak ruffled in the breeze as she waved to the people. Falathar rode behind her, thinking that they would get to spend some time together. The staff of the Houses of Healing, now grown to seven, met them at the gate to the Bar Aran. Valandil and Firiel embraced, vowing to see each other soon. Finally, as the procession headed north, they let go. Valandil continued to look back until Firiel could be seen no longer. Little did they know, Silmarien moved along behind them. She was dressed in plain traveling clothes.

"These folks are going to need a little help," she said to herself.

THE PALACE AT THALION

Tardegil had done a bang up job fixing up the palace. He had the men work around the clock to remove dead plants, polish furniture, and replace wood paneling. Though the work was crude by craftsman standards, it was a vast improvement over the decay that had taken over. The arrival of the Royal travelers improved morale considerably.

The hard-core Raggers lined the road as the entourage passed, yelling, "Hurrah for the Princess! Hurrah!" They had heard of her deeds during the riot and felt she would be no less of a ruler than Ostoher, their beloved King. Tardegil waited at the entrance to the palace wearing his old, weathered silk robe. Nirnadel rode up and dismounted.

The old captain knelt. "Your Highness, it is good to see you so well. I was worried."

The Princess took his hand. "Your concern touches Us, brave Tardegil," she said warmly. The faithful captain rose and Nirnadel hugged him. He returned the affection with his characteristic big bear hug. She remembered how safe she felt in those big arms and he remembered the small, but willful girl who hid behind his chair during council meetings years ago.

The group was welcome into the palace grounds and made camp. The proud Tardegil took the Princess into the palace and up to the throne. The massive, bejeweled seat appeared as golden eagle wings encircling a red velvet cushion. The tall throne back mounted a crystal dome with an intricate etching. Tardegil smiled broadly, the upturned palm of his hand pointed at the throne. "Your Highness, you will one day sit there. This is the throne of Thorondur, the first King of Cardolan." Nirnadel nodded gravely. She knew of the throne and of the long history of her people. A great weight rested upon her young shoulders. Quietly, Kaile and Anariel waited quietly behind them.

Tardegil led her beyond the throne into the main hall, where two ornately carved stairways ran upstairs on opposite sides of the wall. Reaching the top of the stairs, he revealed the fabulous stained glass windows facing west to catch the sunset. Kaile 'ohh'ed and 'ahh'ed, being a simple girl from the city. She had never before left Tharbad. Nirnadel watched the last glow of the sunset and thought back to the many she had seen here before. Tardegil then ushered them to the King's Suite. The ornate door held a gold disk bearing the circle of seven stars, the Royal symbol. The Princess had never been in here. She spent her time at Thalion playing in the gardens or in the Queen's Suite and adjoining nursery. With much unease, she opened the door.

Tardegil bowed. "Your Highness, I take my leave of you now. The rooms are prepared and refreshments can be found within. Call if you require anything." Nirnadel embraced him once again and then slipped into the King's Office. Kaile and Anariel followed.

The King's Office displayed portraits of the nine monarchs of Cardolan, including Ostoher. Nirnadel strode up to that painting and looked up into her father's gray eyes. His regal expression was just as she remembered. The painting captured the essence of his being: confident yet gentle, proud yet understanding. Nirnadel's knees weakened. Anariel rushed to her darling Princess and held her up. "Your Highness, come with me. We will draw your bath."

Nirnadel stood straight and sniffled. "We are well, Anariel. Please, take us to the bath," she said taking some deep breaths.

Sitting in the porcelain and gold tub of hot water, Nirnadel splashed water on her face. A glass of fruit juice sat nearby along with several ripe apples from the winter crop. She drank several sips and then called out, "Kaile, please bring us some reading materials."

Kaile gladly gathered up some books from the King's Library and brought them in. She set them beside the tub on the counter. "This place is most magnificent. I have never before seen such grandeur. Thank you for the chance to see these things."

Nirnadel smiled. "Oh, We so much envied your life. Such excitement. We wanted so much to be involved with the city."

"You have been involved. We couldn't have done it without you. I felt bad having to leave the Houses of Healing, but your concern has allowed Firiel to hire three more assistants. I hear the plague had already done its worst and the number of new cases is dropping. You're the one to be envied," Kaile said seriously.

Nirnadel blushed and threw water on Kaile. "Oh pooh, you are making us embarrassed," she giggled. The two laughed and chatted on as girls are known to do.

Later, when Kaile had left, Nirnadel perused some of the books. She noticed one written by her fallen brother Braegil. Braegil was a renowned lore master, even among the elves. In the text, written in the Sindarin language, she read of an expedition that Braegil had undertaken in 1405 to the ruins of Lond Daer. Just prior to the war, Braegil had organized another expedition in the hopes of finding a fabled 'Mithril Room' of the Númenorean King, Tar-Telemmaitë. That king had an irresistible lust for the metal mithril and his wealth and greed were legendary. Though the king died nearly three thousand years ago, the fable of the 'Mithril Room' lived on. Braegil wrote of a Númenorean ship lost in a storm, known to carry 800 pounds of mithril in eight panels. The panels were completed by the Dwarves of Moria on contract for Tar-Telemmaitë. Near the end of his life, the greedy king refused to yield the Sceptre of Armenelos as was tradition, until his death. And so he died, yearning and hungering for ever more mithril. Nirnadel was fascinated by this tale. However, she noticed that her fingers and toes were becoming quite shriveled. Reluctantly, she put down the book and slid out of the tub in search of a towel.

The dinner was the finest Thalion had seen in nearly a year. Nirnadel sat at the head of the Royal Table with Araphor at the other end. Knights, staff, and soldiers filled the outdoor festival court. Four large reflecting ponds surrounded the court and diners. A feast of turkey, lamb, and beef filled the bellies of host and guests. Tardegil raised his crystal goblet full of wine and toasted the Tinares and the House of Finwarin for the feast and the supplies that strengthened Cardolan. The diners rose and lifted their glasses as well.

When the meal was done, Nirnadel sat by one of the reflecting ponds and gazed at the image of the full moon therein. Falathar sat down beside her. "Fair Princess, have you thought upon my proposal?" he asked.

Nirnadel splashed the cold water with her feet. "Good Falathar, we have just met. We are still young and in no hurry. Please let us think on your proposal," she replied. An uncomfortable silence ensued until broken by Anariel, who had watched Falathar's every movement with eagle eyes.

Anariel stood over Falathar with arms folded. "Your Highness, dessert is being served; strawberries with whipped cream. I know this is your favorite."

The Princess leapt up. She took Falathar's hand and pulled him up. "Come good Falathar, you cannot miss this treat," she instructed, winking at him in a friendly way. His heart raced as he ran after her to the Royal Table.

Mercatur stuffed strawberries into his mouth. "Mmm, chomp...chomp...slurp...I never had it this good in Rhudaur. If I ate sawdust I was grateful...chomp...chomp..."

Valandil laughed. "Enough of this down in the dust mercenary crap. How bad was it in Rhudaur?"

Annael and Ostomir nodded. "Yes, we'd like to know." Mercatur drained another mug of ale and was feeling pretty good. He traded knowing looks with Tardegil, Amrith, and Artos. All had fought in Rhudaur at one time or another. Mercatur's hand gripped his mug with such force that his knuckles were white beneath his tan skin.

"Have you heard of the Gondyrn-onen-Egladil, or Stone Trees of the Angle? They were five beacon towers in southern Rhudaur that defied the power of the Witch-King. The Cultirith, rangers in the service of Rhudaur would try to capture these towers every year and depending on the circumstances, I had both attacked and defended these towers. In fact, only four years ago I had dined in the Chamber of the Merethrond in Cameth Brin. I was one of many being honored for our part in sacking a beacon tower.

Well, the following year, when it was time to renew my contract, the agents of the Witch-King told me they weren't going to renew. So I took up as an Airund-shegan, or war lackey for some wagon train. It didn't pay much, but a guy has got to eat," Mercatur explained, drinking another ale. Nirnadel, Kaile, Anariel, and Falathar had sat down, and listened to Mercatur's continuing tale. Haedorial had also joined them, writing every word down.

"We were betrayed and pursued by wolves and Dunnish warbands. One by one, the other mercenaries fell. Finally, we arrived at Ynarri's Drift, an inn just outside of the Tirthon, one of the beacon towers. Well, we thought we had it made until the Cultirith attacked the inn. The wagon boss, Dagar, was frantic about getting his grain to the tower, so he promised me five extra silver coins. Well, we cut our way out and made it to the tower. I saw my old buddy Hirgrim among the attackers, but that is another story.

This wasn't the end of it. The Dunnish warbands arrived and a siege was formed. It was there that I met House Rhudainor. The lord, Marendil Rhudainor had recently lost his wife and had become suicidal. Several days into the siege, he organized a cavalry charge into the prepared defenses of the Dunnish warbands led by an Easterling mage named Ethacali. Well, we got our butts kicked and Marendil was killed. I was captured, but Hirgrim offered me my life and ten silver coins if I would switch sides. Well, it's obvious what my choice was.

So, for several more days, I led attacks against the Tirthon. Finally, it seemed that we had them beat. Leading a group of the Cultirith, I had succeeded in climbing the wall of the Tirthon and was fighting against my former boss, Dagar. Well, he knew he couldn't beat me, so he threw down a bag of ten gold coins, saying there would be ten more if I would switch sides.

So, after I slew the Cultirith climbers and hurled their bodies down on the orcs with the battering ram, Ethacali and Hirgrim got a little upset with me. First, they sent eight trolls against the Tirthon. The trolls breached the gate and there was desperate fighting. The Tirthon's new commander, Oswy and I poured molten lead down on the trolls, which slowed them down quite a bit," Mercatur spoke. He was beginning to shake and downed another mug of ale. Perspiration poured down his face onto the table.

Haedorial looked down at the scribbled notes that he had taken. "Go on," he urged. The Princess and Kaile grasped the edge of the table, white as ghosts and Anariel covered her face.

Mercatur slowly nodded. "All right...That mage then sent his most foul allies...They came by air, unnoticed...horrible...I...I can't go on," he said, pale white by this time.

Haedorial grasped Mercatur by the shoulder. "But you must."

Valandil pulled him back. "Don't push it, Haedorial." The bard nodded and sat back down. Mercatur drank another ale and then began to mumble an old Rhudauran song from the trollshaws.

Kaile looked at him. "I think he's drunk. Let's get him to bed."

The crew helped Mercatur back into the palace and into one of the rooms. He flopped into bed and began snoring very loudly. After they shut his door, Ostomir looked at Valandil and commented, "You two look very familiar."

SOUTH OF FORNOST ERAIN

The party was now approaching the outskirts of the new capitol of Arthedain. Their journey had taken several days in the thickening snow. The snow-covered hedges that lined the road gave a mystical feel to the journey. Invigorated, Nirnadel and Kaile inhaled the fresh air and talked of riding and sledding. Meanwhile, Valandil had finally satisfied Ostomir that he and Mercatur were engaged in a legitimate operation when they stood outside his mansion on King's Row those many weeks ago.

Nirnadel maneuvered her horse alongside of Haedorial's mount. She brought out the book she was reading and gave it to him. "Kind Haedorial. Please read this book written by our brother and tell me what you might glean from it. If Braegil were interested in this Mithril Room, than it would be of some importance. I trust your skills as a lore master."

The bard was flattered. "Of course, Your Highness. I will talk with you later."

The bard had some learning in the mystic arts and had recognized such skill in the Princess. He would try an experiment. Slowing his horse, he fell back to the rear of the party, behind the foot soldiers. Well out of conversational range he focused his mental energy and whispered to Nirnadel, "Your Highness, I see that you are learned in my art." Observing her far ahead, he noticed her begin to look around.

She spotted him in the rear and returned the whisper from afar, "A gift from our late mother. We are still very unlearned." Haedorial smiled at her. She had a lot to learn and he had a lot to teach.

THE GATES OF FORNOST ERAIN

Tharbad was by far a larger city, but Fornost Erain was better protected. Walls and towers surrounded the city and sentries patrolled the battlements. Snow lay thick over the city and the wind blew with a howl, numbing the spirit. Fornost Erain was further north than Tharbad and the temperature reflected that. Araphor raised the banner of the King and the gates to the city were opened. Falathar, riding next to Nirnadel, 'hrmphed'. "So this is the capitol of Arthedain. How puny. Don't you think so Nirnadel?"

Anariel gawked. "Young man, do not be so familiar with Her Highness. Show some respect."

Chastised, he bowed. "Apologies, I meant no disrespect. Our city of Tharbad is by far the greater."

The party traveled on to the great citadel overlooking the rest of the city. The Arthedan court had turned out to welcome their King. The seer Malborn was also present and made a brief scowl, unnoticed by all except Haedorial. Araphor dismounted from his giant warhorse and walked over to Nirnadel. He put out his arms and lifted her from her saddle, setting her gently down on the snow. She blushed furiously, an event noted by Falathar. Araphor greeted his court. "Gracious courtiers and council members, We have returned safely, bringing the charming and beautiful Princess of Cardolan to visit our realm." The court ohh'd and ahh'd at the ravishing Princess in her pert riding suit.

Malborn knelt before the King. "Your Highness, forgive me, the great seer Ar-Elon. Ar-Elon was shown a false vision in the Palantír. This sometimes happens and even one as great as Ar-Elon can be mislead. Ar-Elon apologizes for allowing the King to be given the wrong impressions."

Araphor winced. "Pray, don't mention it Malborn, We forgive you. We do not know who you showed me, but it definitely was not this Princess." The warriors laughed, causing Malborn to grimace.

The group was then led into the Royal Hall and introduced to the Royal Family, followed by another feast of epic proportions. Later that evening, while the entertainers danced and juggled, Haedorial sat with Nirnadel. "Go ahead, Your Highness, try it," he urged.

She pinched up her face in concentration. "We cannot," she complained.

"You can do it," he countered excitedly. Suddenly, the roast pig on the center table began to oink and squeal.

Several patrons near the pig fell over in surprise. "This pig is still alive," they shouted.

Nirnadel and Haedorial exploded in laughter. The Princess rose and apologized. "We are sorry. It was just a sound effect. Please, continue eating," she offered before bursting into laughter again.

Malborn sat next to Falathar Girithlin, cutting his roast duck with his mithril knife. "How rude for the Princess to behave. She will not be a good match for the King. Perhaps someone like yourself would be better for her. I, Ar-Elon, see how you look at her. You could teach her. You would be the perfect couple."

Falathar nodded. "Yes, I think she likes me and not that King."

Malborn smiled at the seed he had planted. "Yes, you are the one and Ar-Elon will help."

**Chapter 4**

THE ROYAL HOLD AT FORNOST ERAIN – Narwain 1410 

It was now two weeks into Narwain, the first month of the year. The Princess and her entourage had been shown the wonders of the northern kingdom. A tour of the fortress city had been allowed so the party could stretch its legs about town. Arthedain revealed itself to be an ordered, cultured, and well-tended society. Song and poetry were highly revered in the fair city and Haedorial melded right into Arthedan society. Mercatur, however, was supremely uncomfortable being around the artisans and players of Fornost Erain.

During this time, the Princess quietly celebrated her seventeenth birthday. Her friends gathered to pay their respects and to wish her well. Araphor brought her a charming gift: a pair of enchanted earrings that belonged to his grandmother. She, in turn, got them from the elves of Imladris. Excitedly, Nirnadel put them on. The green stones set in ithildin accentuated the color of her eyes. She marveled at how they had no weight among other unusual qualities.

At the request of the seers, especially Malborn, a council meeting was called. The Royal Court was assembling in the hall to hear what the seers might have to say. The power of the these men was great, and their word was held in high regard. Araphor had arranged for Nirnadel to be present at the meeting despite their objections.

Araphor sat upon his crimson and gold throne, facing the court. He was dressed in Númenorean style robes cut to accentuate his powerful physique. His jet black hair was closely cut beneath the ancient crown of Arthedain. The King lifted up the Sceptre of Annúminas to signal the commencement of the meeting. The lords and ladies of the court bowed in respect and each announced their name and title. Nirnadel sat in a seat reserved for honored guests, while two Royal Guards, Kaile, and Anariel stood behind her. Kaile could barely contain her excitement. Only weeks before, she was but a simple assistant healer and a peasant girl before that. Now, she stood with sovereigns and heads of state.

The middle-aged Malborn approached the throne wearing his finest robes, "Your Highness, in the retreat from Annúminas last year, the Royal Library was abandoned. However, it has come to Ar-Elon's attention that the library has remained nearly intact. The tomes contained within are priceless, containing the vast history of our people from the days of Númenor. Also contained within are tomes detailing the wisdom of the ways of essence and channeling. There are spells and wards guarding these tomes, but they will not hold long against the enemy if he tries to recover them. These tomes would prove to be a powerful tool in the wrong hands."

Araphor nodded. Though a warrior by trade, the King knew the power of essence and channeling. He knew what these powers could do against his kingdom. The wards put on these tomes would prove difficult to defeat. Though placed in the rooms and halls of the library by Arthedan mages, none now living knew the nature of these incantations. All of those dedicated mages were slain by the Angûlion and his armies in the fall of the city.

"Very well, Malborn. We will contemplate your wise suggestion and give an answer tomorrow," spoke the King. Other minor business followed, such as the winter crop and spring planting, but this did not seem to interest Malborn. During the lively discussion of planting corn, Malborn slipped out of the Royal Hall. When the discussion had ended and the court was dismissed, Araphor spoke with an elderly female seer named Malwë. He motioned Nirnadel to join them and she approached.

"We would like your assistance in determining a course of action," the King told Malwë.

The old seer nodded. "Why of course, Your Highness. Might I suggest a look into the Palantír?"

The King smiled. "That is what I was hoping you would say," he said. Turning to Nirnadel, he added, "You are in for a treat."

Leaving behind the guards, Kaile, and Anariel, the three journeyed to the Royal Tower. Well armed guards came to attention as the King passed. They climbed the stairs to the pinnacle of the tower, where doors constructed of an odd metal barred their way. The seer held out her hand and a symbol on the door appeared, shining in a silver glow. The doors parted, revealing a circular room with glass windows. Situated in the center of the room were two dark crystal spheres mounted in marble pedestals. One sphere was much larger than the other; so large, that it could not be lifted by a single man. Nirnadel gasped. These were the fabled seeing stones that her father spoke of. He had viewed one once, in the tower of Amon Sûl. The mere existence of these stones was shrouded in secrecy. Only the very learned even knew of their presence in the city.

Malwë stood three feet to the east of the stone and focused her energy west. Araphor and Nirnadel stood behind her, gazing into the stone. The crystal was dark, but a flickering flame could be seen growing inside. An image appeared in the Palantír, showing the now desolate and ruined city of Annúminas. Nirnadel blinked. She could not believe that she was seeing visions from miles away. Soon, the Royal Library could be seen nearly intact, covered by snow. Orcs and trolls had little use for books. In excitement and awe, Nirnadel grasped Araphor by the arm. The scene slowly faded, bringing another of men and orcs fighting near the library. There was blood in the snow. That image also faded, followed by a scene involving an observatory. Several of the tomes could be seen on a desk inside of the observatory. The Palantír then went dark. Malwë glistened with perspiration. "I am not so young anymore. Even a few minutes leaves me drained," she declared.

Araphor stroked his chin. "The enemy is trying to recover the tomes. We must act now."

Struck with an idea, Nirnadel tugged the sleeve of the seer. "May I burden you for a small peek to the south?" she asked sweetly.

Malwë smiled warmly. "Why of course child. I occasionally sneak a look at my home far away." The seer moved to the north of the stone, looking south. Nirnadel stood beside her. The sphere glowed to life again.

Malwë motioned the Princess forward. "Focus on what you want to see," she instructed. Nirnadel concentrated, bringing forth an image of Thalion. Soldiers in armor drilled on the snowy grounds. Next, Tharbad was visible. Wagons and people moved about the icy streets. She then focused on the Bar Aran, where Nimhir could clearly be seen strolling the gardens. Finally, an image of the Houses of Healing appeared. Three patients were departing and waving to Firiel. Then the sphere went dark. Both Malwë and Nirnadel felt drained.

The Princess wiped her brow. "Thank you, kind seer. We feel better knowing our lands are safe." The seer then bowed and withdrew.

Nirnadel looked at Araphor. "We will ask our people to assist you. We understand how important these tomes are to your kingdom."

The King smiled. "Thank you. If... no when we recover the tomes, We shall grant Cardolan access to them. It will greatly enhance both of our lands."

The Princess gathered her entourage in the lounge near her bedchamber. The party sat around her, waiting to find out what was in store. "We have met with the King of Arthedain and have consulted with the Guardians of the Palantíri. There is a matter of importance to both of our kingdoms. When the beautiful city of Annúminas was razed by the Witch-King's forces last year, the Royal Library was left nearly intact. There are tomes contained within which hold great power. We have agreed to assist. We are willing to go personally, so We ask for your help," the Princess said, telling them of the task.

Ostomir raised his hand. "Your Highness, with all due respect, you cannot go on this journey. The risk is simply too great. There are still enemy forces lurking about."

Kaile agreed. "The kingdom cannot afford to lose you. I will go in your place and accept the risk." The rest of the entourage voiced their agreement. Nirnadel contemplated this for a minute.

"Brave friends, what shall We do then?" she asked. One by one, they all stood, saying they would go to uphold the Princess' honor. Nirnadel smiled. "You all put us to shame. We are truly blessed with such loyal followers."

Baranor, respected by all, stood and spoke, "Four Royal Guardsmen will remain behind to guard Her Highness. Anariel will stay also...no offense Anariel, but I think your adventuring days are over." Laughter erupted from the crowd and Anariel sighed with relief. The rest of us can begin preparations and coordinate with the Arthedain party."

Mercatur leaned over to Valandil and said quietly, "There's got to be some gold action there. You think?" Valandil chuckled softly, nodding.

Mallon Eketta, a devout man of great learning, was chosen to lead the Arthedan group. Aerin Eldanar, a woman of profound knowledge, was to be his assistant. Twelve other ohtari rhyn, or mounted warriors, would accompany him. The ohtari rhyn wore black chainmail shirts, cut to suit the ways of horse archery. For weapons, they wielded a longsword, shortsword, and two daggers. In times of war, they would also carry a lance. However, for the purpose of this expedition, they would forego the lance.

Mallon's family lived at Bareketta, a mansion along Lake Nenuial, north of Annúminas. House Eketta was considered to be one of the most powerful in Arthedain, second to House Tarma. Mallon's faith and wisdom were held in high regard by the Royal Council. Aerin belonged to House Eldanar, a family dispossessed when the forces of Angmar took their ancestral home, Barad Eldanar, in 1325. Aerin's father, Elenuil, was the lord of the castle and made numerous attempts to retake the ancient hold. Elenuil died brokenhearted only a few years ago, unable to regain the ancestral home.

In preparation for the journey, Mercatur led several of the Cardolan party members on a shopping spree to outfit themselves. Valandil, Ostomir, Annael, and Kaile wandered about the shop, looking at various accessories. Mercatur was like a kid in a candy shop as adventuring was his life. He tossed the others some backpacks to carry supplies over the desolate land west of Fornost Erain while Annael tried on some fur-lined boots. Down another aisle, Valandil grabbed several lengths of fine rope and a number of waterskins. A tent and compass were also added to the list. Annael picked up a lock pick kit, "I think we're going to need this," he commented. When finished, they took their booty to the counter and poured out an assortment of silver, bronze, and copper coins. The clerk took the coins and passed back a few coppers in change. Mercatur looked at the coin in his hand, eyeing the image of King Arveleg on one side and the seven stars on the other. "Hmmm, Arthedan copper," he mused as he bit the coin.

THE CASTLE OF BARAD MORKAI

The mutated sorcerer, Ulduin had come to Barad Morkai, one of the castles near the Angmar border. Sitting in the meeting room of the Great Hall, he commanded fear from the men and orcs seated around him. Ulduin was not above killing and eating an orc for no reason, just to shock his followers. Ulgarin entered and gracefully sat down. Her pretty smile could be seen beneath her veil, hiding the evil within her heart.

"Ulduin, I have met with our man in Arthedain. He has convinced the King to launch an expedition to Annúminas to recover the tomes. Our plan is to let them recover the books, exhausting themselves. When they emerge, we will take the tomes from them. This way, they face all the traps in the library. Our man indicated that at least twenty people will undertake the expedition; some from Arthedain and some from Cardolan. He also says the bratty Princess of Cardolan is in Fornost," Ulgarin told Ulduin.

The dog-faced monstrosity replied, "Good. I will lead the Sharkai and Urughâsh tribes while you lead the group that we have hired. We should dispense with them quite easily."

Ulgarin interjected, "Do not underestimate them. These men have proved to be unpredictable."

Ulduin laughed. "That is why I have invited some friends." He extended a clawed hand summoning two of his thanes: an eight foot tall, bloated cave troll with a huge enchanted war hammer and a ghastly Uruk chieftain with a saw-bladed scimitar.


	11. Terror Among the Tomes

Writer's notes - Thanks Thug, this was one of my older stories, written years ago. You've motivated me to update it.

I hope you liked the Gandalf cameo a few chapters ago.

**Terror Among the Tomes**

THE GATES OF FORNOST ERAIN – Narwain - 1410

Nirnadel stood at the great gate of the fortress city with her four Royal Guards. Falathar knelt in the snow before her and kissed her hand. "I will bring you riches and glory, Your Highness," he promised.

Nirnadel raised him up. "Brave Falathar, We would be most glad if you would bring yourself back alive."

Kaile came next and gave the Princess a hug. "We'll be back soon. Please don't worry."

Nirnadel grasped her tightly, "You must take care, dear Kaile. You have become like a sister to Us." Other than her older brothers and Anariel, Nirnadel had no companions in childhood. She had grown very attached to Kaile and they had become nearly inseparable. The others took her hand in turn, promising to be safe and return successfully.

The procession headed down the King's Road west toward Annúminas, away from the rising sun. The crisp morning air bit deeply into Nirnadel as she watched her friends travel into grave peril. She cupped her hands, blowing hot air into them. Steam billowed out of her mouth. As the travelers moved out of sight, she sent Haedorial a whisper on the cold Arthedan winds.

"_Please return safely."_

THE VILLAGE OF ROOD

The quiet village of Rood was once a thriving stop between Annúminas and Fornost. The devastation of the war of 1409 had forced most of the occupants to flee. However, the residents had been slowly returning to rebuild and reestablish their lives. In addition, river commerce had also begun to return and enrich the land. Through the snow, the party approached the village from the east.

Mallon pointed to the stately mansion along the south side of the road. "There is the Eketta house. We will lodge with my family for the evening. There will be more snow coming."

Aerin nodded. "I concur. We can wait out the storm tonight."

Arriving at the Eketta House, Mallon saw two armored guards at the front door, dressed in the dignified Eketta colors. Each carried an eket, a short, stabbing sword, for which the family was named. Seeing Mallon, the guards greeted him warmly. Mallon introduced his new companions and they were all warmly greeted by the Ekettas. Quarters were given to each person and they soon gathered in the main hall around the warm fire for hot cider and a meal.

Within an hour after sunset, the snow began falling in earnest, piling up outside in great white drifts. The wind blew hard against the window shutters. Covered in thick furs, Mercatur sipped a mug of hot cider. "This is too much like Rhudaur. I prefer the warmer climate of Cardolan," he commented to Valandil.

The gaily-dressed Haedorial quipped, "I rather like the snow. It feels pure somehow."

Mercatur grunted.

Valandil shrugged. "I don't know. It's just cold out there and I hate to think of lugging back heavy books through it."

The Rhudauran mercenary walked over to one of the windows and looked out at the drifts, his breath misting on the panes. "Snow and wind... wind and snow. I might as well be home."

To this, Valandil drank his cider and sighed. "Well, I'm going to get some sleep. Mallon says it will clear tomorrow." He set his mug near the sink and went to his room. There would be several long days of travel ahead.

THE OUTSKIRTS OF ANNÚMINAS

The desolation grew as the party neared Annúminas. Mallon spread his warriors out in a skirmish line to expand the scouting ability of his force. From a distance, the riders could be seen as slowly moving dots in the snow. Trudging behind were the foot soldiers of Cardolan along with Mercatur, Valandil, and Kaile. They moved slowly west along the Men Aran, or King's Road. To their left, the Baranduin River flowed slowly along to Lake Nenuial.

Off in the distance, a great mound could be seen with snow-covered structures. The wind blew fiercely, throwing flakes into the air. Clumps of frosted pines surrounded the mound, but no other life could be detected. Mallon looked up into the overcast sky. "Another storm is coming. We might have two days," he told the group.

Aerin pointed to the mound. "Look, atop that hill lies ruined Annúminas. Our goal is in sight."

When they were within a few hundred feet of the city, they could clearly see the devastation. At first glance, not a single structure could be seen intact. Houses and shops were smashed and burned. A tower at the northeastern part of the city was razed. Rubble and twisted metal lay in piles. The bridge across the Baranduin was severely damaged and would have to be crossed carefully.

One by one, they went across the battered stone bridge over the icy Baranduin into the Old Quarter of the city. Quaint brick buildings were wrecked or torn down. Skeletons could be seen lying in the cobblestone street. Kaile shivered at the sight and Haedorial grimaced. Mallon commented, "These homes were more than one thousand years old. This city was once the jewel of the Kingdom of Arnor." He bowed his head sadly, "Now it is just scattered rubble."

A straight road ran southwest from the bridge to the now shattered Royal Hall. To one side of the Hall sat the King's Star Tower and to the other side sat the Library. The Royal Hall was once an oval-shaped dome, but now that dome was collapsed into ruin, leaving the intricate framework like the ribcage of a skeleton. A cursory search of the building revealed that it had been thoroughly sacked and pillaged. The library looked damaged, but remained reasonably intact. Several pillars had collapsed and the roof had fallen in areas. Otherwise, the exquisite marble structure stood defiantly in the snow.

Mallon had men probe the doors. The solid mallorn-wood doors had been torn down and lay on the marble steps. Two men stepped over the doors into the ground floor of the library. They reported smashed bookshelves and burnt books lying in heaps. Snow had fallen through gaps in the ceiling and icicles dangled from nearly every hanging surface.

"Sir, we have found two staircases down into the ground," called one man. Mallon and several others stepped through into the Library. Two massive marble staircases wound down to the lower level. One staircase had obvious cracks and gaps in the marble structure. One man began down the first staircase and the other, down the second.

The second man stopped halfway down. The staircase began to rock and pitch lightly. The warrior carefully returned to the top saying, "It's too unstable."

The first man reached the bottom of his staircase and called up, "This one's all right." Having said that, he was immediately incinerated by fire erupting from the floor. The flame shot skyward causing those looking down to jump back. At the bottom, the warrior's charred carcass fell to the floor and broke into pieces.

Mallon swore.

"The wards placed in the Library are still intact. I feared as much. This will make our task more difficult. I will take the next risk," he said with determination. Mallon crept out on the landing and walked cautiously down the stairs. Nearing the bottom, he scanned around the room and on the floor at the base of the staircase. He held out his palm and uttered a prayer to Varda. He was rewarded when a silver symbol appeared on the floor. It was a symbol of fire, placed there by one of the now departed guardians. Two charred orc skeletons lay nearby, attesting to the effectiveness of the hex. Mallon called upon the help of Varda again, channeling his power toward the magical guardian. Perspiration beaded up over his brow despite the cold. Slowly, the symbol vanished. Mallon sighed. "Thank Varda, the threat has been removed. Come down one at a time," he instructed.

Aerin came down next, followed by Valandil. The circular room housing the staircase had two exits: one southeast into a domed room and one west to a door. Mallon moved cautiously to the southeast archway. Having reached the bottom, Aerin and Valandil went to the double doors. Mercatur then came down, followed by Ostomir and then Falathar.

Holding up lanterns to light the way, Mallon and Mercatur moved warily into the archway. Axe in hand, Mercatur looked about. He noticed a heavy portcullis poised over the entryway, ready to skewer any who passed through. He held back Mallon, who exhaled in relief. Together, they scanned the circular room. Black marble columns and walls led up to a magnificent vaulted ceiling. A pool in the center housed a marble statue. Another staircase could be seen directly across the room, while four grand exits ran north, south, east, and west.

At the doors, Aerin discovered that they were securely locked. The doors would take some time to open, even if they would try to bash it in. Mallon ordered his men to bring down stones to prop the portcullis up and prevent it from falling on anyone. Soon, men were bringing in stones and piling them in the archway. It took several minutes before the pile grew high enough to block the fall of the portcullis.

One of Mallon's men reported, "Sir, Amrith is with a group of men up top to guard our rear. He thinks there may be enemy forces out there."

Mallon nodded. "Very well. We cannot be too careful," he replied.

Mercatur and Ostomir ventured into the room and together, they moved to the fountain. Looking in, they noticed the water of the fountain strangely clear. Mallon called, "Don't touch the water. I suspect it is poisoned." Mercatur nodded warily. Falathar had moved close to the western exit.

Four man-sized statues, clad in heavy plate armor, stood in niches along the southern corridor. Each held a greatsword four and a half feet long. Mallon pulled Falathar back harshly. "Those statues will come to life!" he scolded. Falathar shrugged, but kept an uneasy eye on the figures. Mallon checked down each of the remaining exits: north; south; and east. Each had some hidden peril.

Mallon led the way back to the staircase. He shook his head. "We're stuck out there. Can we get through that door?" he asked, pointing to the west door.

Aerin nodded with a slight grin. "I've been waiting for you," she said with a snap of her fingers. Tumblers could be heard rotating within the door. Valandil returned the grin then pulled the double doors open.

Mallon grimaced, seemingly irritated. "Why did you not open the doors before now?" he asked.

Aerin smiled playfully. "Why waste my energy if you can get us through this?" He rolled his eyes, but let a grin cross his face.

Together, they entered a rectangular room constructed of white marble. Porcelain bookshelves held volumes on the lore and the working of stone. Texts of all types and sizes were here, many of which were written by dwarves. Mallon selected a number of books and had them taken upstairs. At the top of the stairs he directed the men.

"Begin building a wagon. We have begun to find some of the books."

Within an hour, they had explored three more rooms: the Crystal Chamber; the Chamber of the Sun; and the Ice Chamber. Pearl-covered books on the intricacies of gem lore, books on the movement of land masses, and books on stars found their way up to the surface to be loaded on the wagon. Within the Ice Chamber, Kaile stood in awe of the walls of bluish-white translucent stone. At the north end of the room, Valandil and Aerin struggled with a locked door. Suddenly, electricity leapt from the door to Aerin's hand. She cried out in pain, shaking her hand about.

"Are you alright?" Valandil asked with concern. Aerin stuck her fingers in her mouth, nodding her head. Kaile had observed this and hurried over to them. She took Aerin's hand and looked at it. It was red, but there was no blistering. Fortunately, the injury was minor.

Kaile reached into her pouch and produced a dried red berry. Giving it to Aerin, she instructed, "Here, take this. It will make you feel better." Aerin ate the berry while Kaile brought out a cream and began rubbing it on the injured hand.

Mallon then opened the east door, revealing a room faced in blue-black stone. The room was domed and encrusted with thousands of large, clear gems. Many of these gems magically radiated light to represent the present configuration of the stars. It was magnificent. The party entered, awed by the twinkling lights on the ceiling. Mercatur's mouth fell open. Tapping Valandil, he commented, "These guys were good. This stuff is amazing." Haedorial continued to write and sketch furiously, jotting down every detail into a leather bound book.

Aerin invoked another spell to open a door on the south wall. Beyond was a large room thickly carpeted in blood red. Inside, bookshelves were covered in scarlet quilting. Mallon and Haedorial entered and were stunned that nearly all sound was swallowed up. Mallon called out, but his voice could barely be heard by Haedorial, only a few feet away. Haedorial pulled one of the books down and opened it. It was written in the Adûnaic language, the native language of the Dúnedain. It was a description of the history and mechanics of lens grinding and of the assembly of great telescopes. Haedorial handed it to Mallon: this would definitely be valuable.

OUTSIDE THE ROYAL LIBRARY, AT THE SURFACE – 4:00 pm

Amrith cautiously eyed the surrounding area for signs of life. Earlier, he had hidden the tracks that they had left in the snow. The wily ranger also had some of the ohtari rhyn hold their mounts over by the Royal Hall in case a quick departure became necessary. The newly constructed wagon also sat there, slowly being loaded with books. Annael and Ostomir, who had just taken another load over there, approached Amrith.

"Anything going on?" asked Annael.

Amrith held up his hand. "Something is out there. I can feel it," he answered quietly.

Annael and Ostomir crouched down behind the pile of rubble being used by the ranger. They scanned around, but saw nothing. Amrith sniffed the chill air. "They're out there. Best one of you go tell Mallon. Evening will be approaching soon. They'll attack then." Annael left immediately to inform the others.

THE GALLERIES OF THE WEST – 4:12 pm

Mallon and Aerin stood admiring the blond wood paneling and floors. Elaborate scrollwork and engraved mithril further beautified the room and connecting chambers. Men had begun to gather the books from the shelves and stack them for transport back to the surface. Haedorial gasped. "By the Valar...this is the Ainulindalë and this...is the Quenta Silmarillion." He lovingly held the two ancient texts, written by elven hands in their ancient script. Haedorial was a learned man and the reading of Quenya, the language of the High Elves, was within his knowledge.

Suddenly, Annael could be heard calling down the hall. "Mallon! We are going to be attacked. Prepare yourselves!" He came running down past two ohtari rhyn who had been standing guard.

Mallon turned. "What? From whom?"

Annael shrugged. "Amrith told me to alert you, but I don't think he knows what is out there."

Aerin, overhearing this, cursed, "Damn, we need more time. We'll get these tomes up to the wagon and make preparations." Valandil and Mercatur picked up several books and began carrying them toward the surface.

Mercatur called back, "We'll stay topside to meet the attack."

Mallon nodded quickly and went back to cataloguing the texts. "We must hurry," he said nervously to Aerin.

OUTSIDE THE ROYAL LIBRARY, AT THE SURFACE – 4:35 pm

Mercatur, Valandil, and Annael had just finished piling the books in the wagon when they noticed the growing darkness around them. Several lanterns provided dim lighting in the area around the Royal Hall and the library. Amrith, Ostomir, Thangar, and others were hastily preparing a defense by piling rubble and stacking arrows. Mercatur and the rest hustled over to lend a hand.

Amrith was busy stringing rope along the line of rubble that was laid out in front of the library. "There are orcs out there. Perhaps a hundred or more."

Annael's eyes widened. "A hundred. What are we going to do?" he asked with some obvious worry.

Mercatur slapped him on the back. "We're going to kill 'em," he replied.

In the flickering lights of the lanterns, movement could clearly be seen in the snow. Ugly, fanged creatures advanced on their position. Many wielded jagged scimitars and a few held short bows. Valandil quickly unslung his composite bow while Mercatur drew a bead on one orc with his crossbow. He let a bolt fly and it pierced the dirty leather armor covering the beast. Snarling, the orc dropped his scimitar and fell over, clutching at the bolt protruding from his chest. Valandil and the others loosed arrows and several orcs fell.

Several arrows fell among the defenders, but none found a mark. Amrith continued to work on stringing the rope while another volley flew. Two ohtari rhyn manning the wagon began to drive away to preserve the books, while the two forces prepared to clash hand-to-hand.

A dozen more orcs fell to the flurry of bolts and arrows. One ohtari rhyn was hit by an arrow in the leg. The wound was not serious, but Amrith ordered him below. A number of orcs reached the rubble and hand weapons were drawn. Mercatur sliced the leg off of one orc and Valandil thrust another through the throat with the point of his sword. Annael and Thangar held their own as well, while the two knights of Tyrn Gorthad fought off four orcs. A handful of arrows felled three more of the beasts, but the fighting was becoming desperate around the rubble. To make matters worst, a number of trolls began advancing toward the library to bolster the attack.

The eight ohtari rhyn on the line began to fall back. Along with the four Cardolani foot soldiers, they formed a shield wall, hacking at any orc brave enough to advance. Mercatur cut down another with a swing of his axe, but more were pouring over the rubble barricades.

Valandil called to Amrith, "Whatever you are going to do, do it now!" Amrith nodded and yanked the rope. Along the rubble piles, a number of skins filled with kerosene burst into flame, showering orcs with flaming liquid. A score of orcs caught fire and writhed in the snow. Amrith leapt up and hacked at an attacker, while Thangar cut down yet another.

A stray arrow found the throat of one of the foot soldier and he collapsed into the snow, spraying blood from his wound. By now the trolls had arrived and Thangar's squire was crushed by the great club of one of the hill trolls. Thangar moved to save him, but two trolls and an orc blocked his way. Annael put an arrow into one troll, but it barely blinked. The other monster then proceeded to rend the fallen squire where he lay. His screams pierced the night air for some time.

Thangar cursed, but fell back, pursued by the orc and troll. Valandil jumped in and slashed the orc across the face. The beast screamed and fell, holding its eyes. The troll swung its club down on Valandil, who parried with his shield. Seeing an opportunity, Mercatur strode in and hewed the troll with his axe. The blade bit deeply into the creature and vile black blood gushed out. Following up, Valandil struck the troll in the leg while Thangar and Annael hacked at its body. Overwhelmed and Reeling, the giant monster fell backward into the bloody snow.

Ostomir fought valiantly alongside his squire. Nearly ten orcs and a troll lay before them, and they were in danger of being cut off. Amrith called to them. "This way! We must get back to the library!" Ostomir sliced another orc open, but took a cut along his arm. In the violence of the fray, two of the vile creatures leapt at the squire, who skewered one. The other orc grappled with the squire, bringing him down. Ostomir moved to help, but another troll stepped up to engage him. Two more beasts piled on the hapless squire and plunged daggers into his skull.

Ostomir stood, swinging bravely at the troll. The orcs, having finished the squire, got up and rushed him. Seeing the danger, Valandil and Mercatur ran to Ostomir and slew the orcs. They then grabbed the young Tinare lord, shouting, "We have to go! He's dead!" Ostomir cut the troll across the chest and then turned to join the two.

The library was in sight. Nearby, one ohtari rhyn was crushed by a troll before it was hacked to pieces by the shield wall. Reaching the library, Amrith pushed everyone through the doorway before collapsing some rubble into the entryway. Catching their breath, they took a role call: the two ohtari rhyn with the wagon had escaped; Thangar and Ostomir's squires were dead; one ohtari rhyn was dead and another wounded; and one foot soldier dead. Ostomir, Thangar, and Annael had received light wounds, but they were otherwise in good health. Forty orcs and perhaps three trolls lay slain outside, but the odds were still bad.

"There will be more where they came from and we can expect no reinforcements," said Amrith quietly.

Baranor nodded. "Aye, we best prepare a reception for them."

Baranor and three of the Royal Guards had created defenses inside the library leading to the staircases and they were ready for battle. Sounds could be heard outside of orcs and trolls digging out the rubble from the entryway. Baranor sat behind one of the piles of rubble with his bow. "Get ready to fall back to the lower level. I've created another line of defense," he told the others. His winged mithril helm reflected the light of nearby torches giving him the look of a Númenorean warrior of old.

Unexpectedly, the sounds of digging stopped outside. The defenders waited nervously, wondering what would come next. Suddenly, piercing the still night air was a single demonic voice crying out in an unidentifiable language. The rubble in the entryway began to tremble. Large stones crumbled into dust as the barricade disintegrated. Amrith blinked in awe. "Oh, this is bad," he said to himself. Visible now through the entryway was a horrid dog-faced monster. Amrith loosed an arrow at it, but it was deflected by some unseen force. Orcs poured through the opening.

Baranor fired an arrow, which sunk into an orc's chest up to the feathers. Mercatur popped another with a crossbow bolt. A few others fell to arrows, but the battle was joined. Giving a battle cry, Valandil and Ostomir clashed with five of the beasts, while the Cardolani Royal Guard took on six. The dog-faced creature strode in confidently and pointed his palm at one of the ohtari rhyn. Blood erupted from his nose and eyes and he fell, screaming. Thangar cut the throat of an orc, but was in turn stabbed in the arm. Chaos was everywhere.

Setting his defense in motion, Baranor kicked at several pillars, bringing heavy stones down upon the attackers. A number of orcs were crushed along with one troll. The dog-faced beast dove out of the way to avoid one of the stones and was showered by small rocks. Baranor clove the chest of another troll and shouted, "Fall back! We must retreat."

JUST OUTSIDE ANNÚMINAS – 4:50 pm

Ulgarin had heard the sound of fighting within the deserted city. She strained to see what was happening with her powerful elven eyes. The group she had procured to attack the emerging Arthedan and Cardolani group stood about. Ulgarin kicked some snow in fury. "Damn, they were supposed to wait. If we go in after them, we'll get caught in all the traps as well," she fumed. Grabbing a paunchy hireling, she raged. "Go over there and get them to fall back. I don't know what Ulduin thinks he is doing." The portly mercenary began jogging toward Annúminas. He got no more than fifty feet, when he was hit by a solid bolt of ice, which split his skull. Ulgarin gasped just as her world erupted in jagged shards if ice.

Suffering from multiple lacerations, Ulgarin fell backward. She could hear the screams of her thugs around her. The elf wiped the blood from her eyes and crawled behind a nearby snow mound. Scanning the snowy terrain, she spotted a woman dressed in white moving rapidly toward the ruined city. Ulgarin was too stunned to react and by the time her head cleared, the woman was gone. Of her force of twelve scoundrels, eight lay dead and three were badly injured. Ulgarin swore under her breath, "That wench will pay dearly." The elf grabbed her one remaining uninjured hireling. "Let's go!" she ordered. The man hesitated, pointing to the wounded. Ulgarin sneered, and with a wave of her hand the injured men burst into flame. The man's jaw fell open, but he reasoned that following her would be in his best interest.

WITHIN THE ROYAL LIBRARY – 4:55 pm

One by one, the defenders fled down the staircase, the flickering of the lanterns creating an eerie light. Baranor, Amrith, and Mercatur held off any orcs or trolls brave enough to press the attack. Through the confusion, Mallon came up the stairs to assist in the defense. Hurling a rock at an orc, Baranor called, "We are heavily outnumbered. We must fall back."

Mallon raised his fist and called upon Varda. Four of the vile beasts fell over, writhing in pain.

Slowly giving ground, Mercatur lopped the head off of one of them while Amrith impaled another with his sword. Baranor grabbed Amrith. "Get below!" he shouted, pushing the ranger roughly toward the staircase. Amrith took a few steps, turned and loosed one final arrow into a troll before he disappeared below.

Mercatur moved next. He feinted, fooling the troll into overextending itself, and then he sliced its belly open with his axe. As the troll doubled over, he ran down the staircase laughing. Baranor pushed Mallon back. "You're next!"

Mallon pushed right back. "This is my expedition. You go first!"

"There's no time to argue!" Baranor countered, slicing the arm off of another orc.

Mallon grabbed Baranor and flung him back toward the staircase. He channeled raw power through himself and focused on an advancing troll. Black blood began to erupt from the troll's eyes, nose, and mouth. In a frenzy, two orcs swung at Mallon, but a force caused them to miss. Then, the dog-faced creature peered from behind some rubble and pointed his finger at Mallon. A flash surrounded the Eketta Lord and when the light dissipated, he gasped as his ribs protruded from his chest. The front of his white surcoat was immediately stained red with blood. He staggered back and channeled what little power he had left.

"With my last breath I will stop you!" he cried.

Two unfortunate orcs were crushed by the channeled energy and collapsed in a heap. Baranor tried to advance to save Mallon, but a dozen attackers move to block him.

As Mallon Eketta looked up, the beasts fell on the dying nobleman and tore him to shreds.

Baranor fled down the staircase and out through the west door into the White Room. Aerin put a ward on the door as they sealed it. Baranor leaned up against the far wall and slid down to a sitting position. He shook his head wearily. "He's gone. We're trapped in here." Haedorial gasped and Kaile began to cry.

Valandil swore. "We'll make them pay. We'll fight room by room if we have to. We're not going down without a fight." Baranor and the other Royal Guards nodded in agreement.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

At the top of the staircase, Ulduin gathered the remnant of his force. Only half of his orcs remained while a third of his trolls had perished. He had sent a runner to summon Ulgarin and her reinforcements, but no one had yet returned. The dog-faced sorcerer called to his two thanes. "Burazog, Strulug, take a force down the staircase. Finish them off and gather up any books. I don't want any books harmed. Do I make myself clear?" The monstrous cave troll and the vicious Uruk chieftain nodded.

With a grunt, Strulug gathered a number of his depleted Urughâsh orcs and began heading down the staircase. Soon, a symbol at the base of the staircase glowed red. Ulduin tried to call out to warn Strulug, but it was too late. The symbol, placed by Mallon, erupted in flames. Smoke and fire leapt up to consume the orcs. Looking down, Ulduin stepped back amid the dust and flame that flew up. When the room had cleared, orcs could be seen below struggling or lying charred on the floor. In rage, Ulduin kicked over a frozen bookshelf.

_This is not going as expected._

Strulug had survived, but seven of his force perished. Ulduin sighed. This problem would require some of his arcane power. He grabbed one of the orcs standing nearby and uttered a minor incantation. He shoved the whining beast over the ledge into the chaos below. The orc screamed, but to its amazement, it landed safely on two feet. Ulduin shook his head. "I should have known," he commented. He would need to do this for his entire force, depleting much of his sorcerous power.

NEAR THE STREET OF TERRACES, NORTH OF THE LIBRARY – 5:20 pm

The wagon sat behind a grove of evergreens, covered with torn cloth and other camouflage. Two ohtari rhyn stood warily in the darkness, anxiously listening for any sound.

"What do you think happened to everyone?" one asked with a whisper.

"How should I know? You saw as much as I did," replied the other.

"I think we should go back and check it out," voiced the first one again.

The second one shook his head. "Our orders are to get the books back safely. Besides, if they survived, don't you think they would have told us by now."

The first one balked. "Look, we have to see if they're still alive. They might need help."

Suddenly, a woman dressed in a white hooded cloak appeared out of nowhere. The two soldiers fell back in the snow. She appeared as a ghost in the dim light with her cloak and blonde hair whipping in the wind.

"Do not be afraid. I am here to help," she stated. The men rose, pointing their swords at the woman.

The second one said indignantly, "Don't be afraid? You scared us half to death. Who are you?"

The woman held up her hands, palms out. "I am sorry. My name is Silmarien; a mage by trade. I come from Tharbad and am friends with members of your group. You must trust me." The men were skeptical, but realized that if she were an enemy, she could have just killed them and taken the books. They nodded in unison. Silmarien went to the wagon and put an enchantment on it. To the amazement of the men, the wagon turned into a number of small pine trees.

One man slapped his own cheek. "Rogrog's teeth," he swore, "I've never seen this magic stuff before."

Silmarien smiled. "Don't worry. It's just an illusion."

With that, they headed south toward the library.


	12. Blood in the Snow

A GARDEN IN THE LOWER LEVEL OF THE LIBRARY – 5:45 pm 

The fight in the White Room had cost the party dearly. Two more ohtari rhyn fell and another two were wounded. This left only three combat ready. Another Cardolani foot soldier perished along with one of the knights of Tyrn-Gorthad. Falathar's squire was missing and presumed dead in the chaos of the retreat.

Near a large marble basin filled with water lay the wounded, tended by Kaile. The three injured ohtari rhyn, along with Thangar, and Annael's brother. Thangar was grieviously injured with a wicked gash on his forehead and left arm and two deep arrow wounds to his belly. Kaile tended him gently, washing out the gashes with water and putting an herbal pack over the arrow wounds. She had managed to stop the bleeding, but felt he might still die. "I wish I had Firiel's skill," she commented quietly over the unconscious Thangar.

Within the garden, blue marble pilasters stretched up to support a sculptured frieze also of blue marble. Springing up from the upraised arms of the marble dancers, an arching skylight of broken glass revealed the cloudy night. Standing in the fountain were two stone nymphs cavorting in the memory of fountain spray. Frozen foliage lay around the basin, attesting to the life that once filled this ruined city.

Aerin sat near the basin, head in her hands: She was exhausted. Her magical skills had held off the attackers and allowed the party to escape, but now she was drained. "I have very little power left," she commented to Baranor who sat nearby, also exhausted. He held a sword made of a glassy blue material on his lap. His steel composite bow had trimmed the overwhelming advantage in numbers the enemy had held, but now he had only two gull-feathered arrows remaining. Mercatur quietly honed his axe, happy to be at war again. Valandil paced nervously, thinking of Firiel far away.

Meanwhile, Haedorial and one of the Royal Guardsmen examined the three massive stone doors at the end of the garden. Upon the doors, carved in bas-relief, was a map of Númenor. The middle and right doors had fallen from their hinges, skewing the map and blocking the way into a huge vault.

Amrith, his thick white garments covered in the dried blood of orcs, examined the left door. He marked a part of the door with charcoal, muttering to himself, "Trap".

THE GALLERY OF MIRRORS – 6:00 pm

An orc writhed in pain on the ground, all of its limbs twisted unnaturally. Unperturbed by its screams, Ulduin stepped over it into the gallery. Every surface of the room was covered in mirrors, including the covers of the books. Ulduin revealed his fangs in an evil grin. This was the right room.

However, the mirrored surfaces of the books made identification of valuable texts difficult. Ulduin paced impatiently as orcs poured throughout the tomes. Occasionally, one would fall over screaming after having discovered a destructive rune in a book.

An hour went by before Ulgarin arrived. Her veil was shredded and she was covered in cuts and bruises. Furthermore, there was only one hireling with her. Ulduin furrowed his canine brow. "What happened? Where are the others?"

"Isn't it obvious? We were attacked by an unknown force. The rest are dead," she replied.

"That's great. This is not according to plan," retorted Ulduin sarcastically.

"You think I don't know that?" shot Ulgarin, sneering.

Ulduin's taut muscles flexed and his lip curled slightly. The orcs had learned to recognize this as a bad sign. Many of their brethren became dinner after such a sign. The tension was unbearable.

Suddenly, Strulug interrupted, "I've found one of the Master Texts." The orcs breathed a sigh of relief. Strulug handed the mirror-bound book to Ulduin who opened the volume.

He grinned a toothy grin. "Good work. This is the Sorceror's volume. Load this and the others in our wagon."

Ulgarin hrmph'd and turned to go.

On the way out she enlisted a few trolls. "Let's go. I'm going to round up those pesky adventurers."

THE GARDEN – 6:40 pm

Amrith and Haedorial had succeeded in disarming the trap and had opened the door into the vault. Haedorial gasped at the beauty of the blue room. Ornaments and carvings adorned the blue porphyry walls and small reading rooms flanked the entryway. Thousands of tomes resided on blue bookshelves with a large number carelessly strewn about during the rapid evacuation of the library.

Ostomir entered and began to peruse several of the tomes. One, bound in a jade cover, revealed silver pages detailing the journeys of Tar-Telemmaitë to Middle-Earth. He placed this book in his leather backpack and continued to search. Haedorial was soon seated, cross-legged, and surrounded by books. He seemed to have completely forgotten the desperate situation that he and his comrades now faced. The bard was deeply engrossed in a text written by Elendil himself regarding the downfall of Númenor and the founding of Arnor.

Near the reflecting pool, Aerin slept soundly, while Kaile changed the bandages of the wounded. Several hours had passed without incident, but all knew that this was only the calm before the storm.

THE CHAMBER OF MYSTERIES – 11:30 pm

Ulduin handed a wood-bound text to Strulug. "Take this one to the wagon. We have all of the Master Texts. It is time for us to depart."

Strulug bowed to his fiendish master. "Of course. We shall make ready to leave."

Ulduin strode across the purple carpet toward a group of orcs. "Go find that elf wench and tell her it's time to go." The orcs immediately scampered off for fear of angering their lord. Ulduin weighed the benefits of killing off the adventurers against any disadvantages. His troops could probably destroy the party, but his force would be so drastically weakened that even a small group could wipe him out on the return trip. Perhaps this was a time for discretion.

Another orc entered the room, sniveling, "Master, we have secured the books... We await your next orders, master..."

Ulduin nodded, "Very well. Assemble around the wagon and make ready to depart."

The orc drooled in excitement, "Yesss, master," he soothed and then departed. Ulduin smiled, thinking that he would meet the adventurers another day. They had fought bravely and he found some admiration for them.

OUTSIDE THE LIBRARY – 12:30 am

In the darkness, a heavy wagon sat, surrounded by more than two dozen orcs and half a dozen trolls. Ulduin emerged from the library and instructed the trolls to take the harnesses of the wagon. The four wooden wheels creaked in the snow as the trolls began pulling the book-laden wagon up the street. Orcs warily eyed the deserted ruins for any sign of an attack. Ulduin strode in front of the procession, glancing about nervously. He still sensed danger in the area.

Covered in bushes and disguised by a minor illusion, Silmarien and the two warriors observed the approach of the wagon. Silmarien narrowed her crystal blue eyes. "On my word you shoot the lead orcs. Understand?"

The second soldier shook his head. "Look lady, I don't know who you are, but there are more than thirty of them. Even if we could take out four or five before they caught on, we'd still be killed."

Silmarien turned to him and smiled. "Don't worry, I have a plan."

The second soldier rolled his eyes, but the first nodded. "I'm with you. We must save those books."

The wagon was now creaking along the road less than fifty feet from Silmarien's position. The second soldier reluctantly knocked an arrow as did the first. Silmarien brought out three white objects from her pouch: a cube; a pyramid; and a sphere.

Looking skyward, she whispered, "Praise Varda and bless Dirhavel." When the wagon passed within fifteen feet, she hurled the objects toward the trolls.

INSIDE THE GARDEN – 12:40 am

Baranor roused Aerin and the three other Royal Guards. He pointed down the hall into the darkness. "I have a feeling that they are weaker than we think. The time to attack is now." The guards nodded in agreement. Aerin took a swig of water from her water skin. She felt rested considering the recent exertion of the battle. The remainer of the able-bodied warriors prepared for the fray. Straps were checked on armor and weapons were hastily sharpened. Baranor looked at Amrith grimly. "Do or die," he said calmly.

Kaile would remain behind with the wounded. She placed a small dagger nearby to use on her patients and herself should the attack fail. Despite the cold, perspiration covered her palms. She would need to be brave.

Baranor, holding his bow at the ready, motioned the group down the wide hall back toward the central dome with the pool. Mercatur and Ostomir took the point with Amrith and Baranor right behind them. Cautiously, Mercatur peered up a wide stairway into the darkness. Ostomir held a lantern to illuminate the way. Scratching and banging could be heard up the stairway and a faint light could be seen at the top.

Mercatur motioned Ostomir to cover the lantern, cutting off the light. Listening quietly, they could hear a deep, harsh voice speaking in a gutteral language. Mercatur whispered back to the group, "Troll."

Amrith and Baranor nodded and passed the news back. Into the darkness, Mercatur crept up the stairway, feeling the stone stairs with his left hand. Ostomir followed slowly, feeling far less confident than Mercatur. At the top of the stairwell, the mercenary saw a faint light coming from the Ice Chamber off to the right. He crawled up to the entryway of the chamber and peered in. Five large trolls searched through bookcases, while one held open a door on the far wall.

Ostomir came up behind Mercatur. Amrith, Baranor, and Valandil fell in behind; each crouched and battle ready. The mercenary held up six fingers, indicating the number of trolls within. Everyone nodded readiness.

With a shout, Mercatur burst into the dimly lit room and fired a crossbow bolt into the nearest troll. The bolt sunk into the troll's barrel chest, spraying black blood. Amrith and Baranor fired arrows as well and each shaft found a mark. Baranor's target fell backward, clutching at the black-feathered arrow in its eye. Ostomir slashed at Mercatur's troll and his elegant sword clove the belly of the beast wide open, spilling entrails on the floor as the troll doubled over.

Trolls are nothing if not tough and resilient, and soon the surprise had worn off. One troll hurled a book, striking Amrith in the face. The ranger went to one knee and covered his bloody nose with a grunt. Pressing forward, Mercatur unleashed his deadly battle-axe and sliced the arm off of a hapless troll. Despite its wound, the troll brought down a large bookshelf on top of Mercatur. The crash of wood and stone-covered books was deafening. A great 'ugh' could be heard as the mercenary was covered in books. Ostomir was also hit by several stone-covered tomes, knocking him back. The one-armed troll covered its stump and fell back to the far door. Baranor put his last arrow into the troll's throat, ending its retreat. In a flurry, the other trolls had fled and the door slammed shut.

In the aftermath, Amrith nursed a broken nose and two black eyes. Otherwise, he was unharmed. Mercatur was pulled, cursing and hollering, from under the bookshelf. "Gaah, get these damn books off of me!" he bellowed.

Three trolls lay slain. Baranor inspected the fallen beasts. "Good work. Let us head back upstairs. We will attack their base." Turning to Valandil, he asked, "Go get Kaile and help carry the wounded. We don't want them to get trapped here." Valandil nodded and took some of the men back to the garden.

The assault team worked their way back to the staircase, where Mercatur led the way up. The others followed while Baranor and another royal guard kept watch for Valandil to return. On the ground floor of the library Mercatur took up a defensive position near the great front doors. The dim morning sun peered through the holes in the ceiling. A heavy overcast kept the ambient light to a minimum. Amrith surveyed the ground, finding footprints in the snow. "They left the library; perhaps a couple of hours ago. Some were carrying heavy loads," he informed Ostomir, who stood beside him.

Mercatur, overhearing Amrith, commented, "Let's go after those rats."

OUTSIDE THE LIBRARY

The six trolls pulling the heavy wagon bellowed in surprise and pain as the white pyramid thrown by Silmarien burst into bolts of lightning. Electricity danced over their bodies and they writhed in agony. Nearby, two orcs fell, pierced by arrows. Ulduin quickly scanned the frosty terrain and saw two bowmen reloading arrows. He prepared a spell.

Two trolls had fallen to their knees and the others continued to hop around. Another arrow struck an orc in the face and it keeled over backward. At that moment, the white cube burst into a fine powdery mist. Immediately, the trolls began to gasp and cough. A fourth orc fell forward, grasping at an arrow in its throat.

Ulduin unleashed his power: a cruel spell woven by the sorcerer hurled toward Silmarien. As the energy engulfed her, a force surrounding her absorbed it into nothingness. Ulduin grunted in frustration. Elsewhere, the orcs began to return fire; however, an arrow found a fifth beast, striking it in the belly. The wounded orc tumbled over, howling in pain.

Silmarien fought back: holding her palms together, she conjured a bolt of fire and slung it at Ulduin. The sorcerer waved his hand and the bolt sailed past him into the distance. A dozen orcs now advanced toward Silmarien and the two warriors as Ulduin prepared another spell. The two warriors fired another volley, but the orcs raised their shields and the arrows sunk into them harmlessly. The beasts, led by Strulug, charged. The muscled Uruk brandished his scimitar, howling with delight. He failed to see the white sphere lying in the snow as he ran over it. The orcs behind him gasped in awe as the sphere grew into a massive polar bear.

As the orcs stood stunned, the bear smashed one with a swipe of its giant paw. Immediately after, it leapt on another and sunk its razor sharp teeth into the orc's neck. Unfazed, Strulug and another orc pressed on to engage the two warriors. The ohtari rhyn had drawn their swords and shields and met the two orcs on the snow mound. They traded blows and the thump of sword on shield was deafening.

Ulduin focused his energy again: a wave of force swept over Silmarien and this time she could not stop it. She felt the air rush from her lungs and she gasped. In retaliation, Silmarien raised her hand at Ulduin and a bolt of lightning leapt forth. The dog-faced beast was struck and a great sizzling sound could be heard.

Silmarien fell to her hands and knees: wheezing and unable to catch her breath. Ulduin hopped about, batting at his smoking fur. His muscles twitched violently and he fell over into the snow.

Meanwhile, the polar bear had swatted another orc, smashing its skull. It had taken a few minor wounds from the scimitars, but this only seemed to enrage it. The seven orcs began to fall back before the fury of the furry beast. On the snow mound, Strulug was clearly the superior fighter. He had wounded both ohtari rhyn and was pressing the advantage. Backing down the mound, the second warrior slipped on a patch of ice and fell over face down. Covered by the other orc, Strulug slashed the warrior's neck, severing his head clean off.

The remaining warrior batted down the scimitar of the covering orc and smote it in the head. Its helmet burst open and blood streamed down its face. As it toppled over, Strulug grappled with the warrior. As they fell over, the Uruk ran his saw-toothed blade across the warrior's throat.

Staggering, Silmarien fell over on her back as her vision blurred. She saw the two ohtari rhyn die, but was powerless to stop it. Her breath came in strained, desperate gulps of air. Her face was pale and her lips blue. Looking up, she saw delicate snow flakes falling on her face. She thought of Dirhavel and she turned her head to look upon her killers. She would face them bravely. Her fading eyesight revealed a strange scene: a rampaging bear; a shower of arrows; and a man in a mithril helm swinging a glassy, blue sword.


	13. The Tower

OUTSIDE THE LIBRARY – 6:45 am

"We got to her just in time," commented Kaile, looking down at the unconscious Silmarien. The beautiful mage lay resting peacefully as Kaile rubbed a pungent herb over her throat and nose. Valandil nodded, sitting beside her. He felt for the battered mage as this was not the first time she had endangered herself on his behalf. The healer looked over to the tired soldier. "Valandil, I know now that you did not mean to harm Firiel. I apologize for overreacting."

The knight smiled at her despite the situation. "Make no mention of it. We were all under a lot of stress."

Mercatur, ran up to Valandil, grabbing him by the arm. "What are you waiting for, those rats are getting away! This is personal now."

The knight rose quickly and started to jog after the mercenary, who as already walking off.

Still kneeling at the mage's side, Kaile called out, "Come back safely," and then turned her attention back to the wounded.

Amrith the ranger knelt in the snow examining a number of tracks that headed east. Looking up at Baranor, he commented, "Four hours old at most."

The Captain of the Royal Guard nodded and then motioned the group in the direction of the tracks. Two royal guardsmen and the three healthy ohtari rhyn remained behind to protect Kaile and the wounded.

"Take the wagon and escape back to Fornost," Baranor commanded.

With this, the Captain led the remnants of the force to pursue the fleeing enemy.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Strulug led the remains of his battered force eastward toward the rendezvous point. Less than 20 orcs remained. Three trolls guarded the rear of the column while Ulduin limped along in the middle, supported by Ulgarin. Ulduin was spent; his arcane power depleted and his body burnt by Silmarien's spell. Ulgarin's timely arrival had allowed him to escape. Her spell caused a flurry of snow to burst upward, screening their retreat. Now, they had to flee with the remaining tomes in their possession to meet up with reinforcements. To assist them, the Witch-King had dispatched 20 of his feared Black Rangers to escort the group home and to destroy any pursuers. Until then, Ulgarin prayed for bad weather to hide them.

For two long days, the pursuit continued through the snow. Still, the enemy could not be seen. However, Amrith's skillful tracking had closed the gap. Their quarry was perhaps only an hour ahead. Baranor pushed the party even harder. The finale was nearly at hand.

Ulduin had regained a little of his strength and was walking on his own now. However, the orcs were becoming weary and were talking about to turning to fight and only Ulgarin's iron fist kept them marching on beneath the gray skies. She knew that the men of Arthedain would be closing in on their group and that it was only a matter of time before they would confront each other. With such a small force, they would not survive and the designs of the Witch-King would be defeated. This could not happen. Ulgarin thought carefully and an idea came to mind. She ordered the depleted force to turn to the southeast. There was an ally that she needed to call upon.

THE SEER'S OBSERVATORY

An observatory upon a hill came into view through the swirling snowflakes and the setting sun. It was a slender tower of translucent, white stone capped with a sectioned dome of steel. Its graceful lines were bewitching under the soft rays of the sun. An unfinished dirt path led to the hill and up to the tower.

The evil elfin maid, Ulgarin, marched up to the tower and rapped on the door.

"Seer, open the door. We have come with the tomes for the Master," she called into the whipping winds.

The door opened, revealing a man and woman dressed in thick, dark robes. They ushered Ulgarin and Ulduin inside along with the tomes.

"Your servants must wait outside," the man instructed Ulgarin, "Ar Elon so commands it."

With a sour grunt, Ulgarin entered through the door into a curved hallway. A spiral staircase of marble ran upwards from the granite floor.

"This way," beckoned the woman, leading Ulgarin and Ulduin down a hall to the right. They passed through a circular room with a dome. Mosaics covered the floor in an intricate pattern of local flora. The dome portrayed the stars shining through the pastels of dusk. The man opened another door and entered into a sitting room.

"Ar Elon, the visitors are here," the man said.

"Good, show them in." A distinguished-looking man in scarlet robes motioned them into the room. "You have brought me the tomes no doubt," he stated haughtily to the two servants of the Witch King.

Ulgarin bristled through her torn veil. "Let me remind you that we all work for the same master. I take no orders from you, seer."

The tainted seer sneered in return. "And let me remind you that it is very cold outside and you have a long way to journey home. I suggest you become more cooperative."

Although weakened, Ulduin snarled. "The Lord of Angmar would hear of this."

"Then you must tell him upon your return. Until then, you two look horrible. Let me get you some refreshments and we can get down to business," said Malborn, quickly switching to a charming demeanor. The Dunadan seer was a master at verbal manipulation, rarely coming out on the losing side of a conversation.

OUTSIDE IN THE SNOW

The ranger Amrith rubbed his broken nose painfully. "Do you see that observatory? They went in there."

"Do we know what that observatory is?" questioned Baranor, mist surrounding his face.

Haedorial looked cautiously at the structure. "I would hazard a guess to say it was a Royal Observatory," he said, "It certainly fits the record books that I have read."

"Why would they have gone into there? Is it abandoned?" asked Valandil, rubbing his hands for warmth.

"Well, it doesn't matter… We have to get those tomes. Let's make a cautious approach to the door," said Baranor. Slowly, in a crouch, he began to move forward, motioning to the others to follow. As they moved ahead, Baranor scanned the snowy ground.

As they neared the structure, a sense of foreboding grew within the group. At the base of the tower, Haedorial's eyes grew as recognition filled them.

"This is a Dunadan tower," he announced quietly.

Baranor narrowed his eyes. "…a traitor to the Kingdoms…and a powerful one at that."


	14. Double Crosses

Wow, we are actually into new material now, written over the last couple of days. I'll get back to the SW fic now. Thanks Thug for motivating me on this again.

**Double Crosses**

OUTSIDE THE TOWER – 5:45 Pm

The Cardolani ranger, Amrith, made a cautious approach to the foot of the tower, covered by Baranor's bow. He spied the trolls and orcs that had accompanied the wagonload of books and crouched down out of their sight. Peering around a drift, he noticed that many of the books were not on the wagon and surmised that they must have gone in the tower with the two leaders of the band.

At the door, he drew his sword and checked around as the snow swirled about his form. On his signal, Haedorial and Aerin Eldanar moved up to join him.

The ranger examined the large, ironbound doors and began to pick the lock. As he did so, the bard took careful notice of the step that they were on and cleared away some of the gathered snow.

"Amrith, hold a moment," Haedorial whispered amid the howl of the icy wind. He pointed down, where tiny holes were visible in the stone.

"By the Valar, I'm glad you've come along, bard," answered Amrith. The ranger nodded to Aerin, who extended her power into the door and the sound of tumblers rolling signified the opening of the door.

"I hate to waste my strength here, but the trap was rather nasty," the woman advised. "A hundred poison darts awaited us under this stair."

Haedorial gulped hard as Amrith signaled the others to approach.

Cautiously, Baranor led the others to the tower, careful not to be seen by the evil horde. Arriving at the base of the observatory, Baranor had some of the men set up for a possible ambush against the orcs. He then pointed to Amrith and Valandil, indicating that they should enter the tower and explore it.

The ranger nodded and slid through the door followed by Valandil. They scanned the entry hall that contained a marble, spiral staircase with polished steel banisters. A large crystal sphere marked the beginning of the stair.

Amrith motioned for Aerin and Mercatur to come forward and they crept onto the tiled floor, taking a second to notice the rich tapestries that lined the room.

"I think what we want is upstairs," whispered the knight to his companions. The mercenary checked the crystal sphere and it began to move. He took a big breath as the sphere rotated into another position.

"I dunno what just happened, but it seems we're still alive," Mercatur added and Amrith acknowledged it with a shrug.

Cautiously, they padded up the marble steps to the second floor landing, which ended in a rich, piled carpet of blue and silver. Valandil looked down one of the long rows of wooden bookshelves that made up this grand library. They would need to go through this chamber to find what they were looking for.

Amrith crept out onto the thick carpet, occasionally peering through the numerous tomes to check the area around them. He held his breath for a moment, listening. He then looked back at his comrades and motioned them to remain still.

Three voices became clear.

"It was agreed…I would get my selection of the tomes prior to their final delivery. Do not forget, that I have the advantage here," a male voice spoke with some irritation.

A female voice answered, "You also forget that you owe your power to the King of the North. We are prepared to offer you three tomes of our choosing."

"Unacceptable," responded the man.

"I suggest you find a way to accept them," cut in a voice that was not quite human.

There was a sigh and then the sound of pacing. "Very well," spoke the man with resignation. "Follow me and we will hammer out the terms of the agreement." Footsteps on carpet could be heard followed by a door opening and closing.

Valandil narrowed his eyes and looked at Mercatur. The mercenary gave him a quizzical look in response. The moved quietly across the carpet to a double door made of the finest wood.

At the door, Amrith heard the sounds of scuffling inside, followed by shouts from the man. Without thinking, the ranger burst in to see a middle-aged seer wrestling with the dog beast that led the orcs. Behind then was a glass wall leading to a balcony.

"You've come just in time!" cried the seer. "Help me!"

Amrith blinked, noticing the elf woman standing nearby, and then charged at the wrestling pair.

Ulgarin, the elven woman, unleashed a flash of light from her hand, blinding Amrith momentarily. He turned aside as Mercatur fired a bolt from his crossbow. The quarrel leapt at the woman, but was deflected with a swing of her bluish trident.

By now, the sorcerer dog-beast, Ulduin had risen and howled a warning to his force below. With a snarl, he bared the fangs of his doglike snout and removed a chain hooked to three spiked balls from his belt.

Valandil bravely strode forward and stabbed at the sorcerer with the tip of his sword, which glanced along the metal plates covering the beast's arm. Ulduin swirled the spiked balls and landed them on Valandil's shield, smashing away bits of wood and metal from it.

The knight grunted, taking a step back and slashed the sorcerer across the jaw with a cut more desperate than lethal. A bolt then sank into the beast's side and it let out an unearthly howl.

At that, Ulgarin waved her trident and the glass wall shattered outward into the raging snow. In a flash, the two servants of the Witch King were gone.

Snow blew into the now exposed room and Valandil stood, stunned by the ferocity of their departure.

Only an inhuman howl could be heard over the wind.

The man on the floor stood. "You have saved Ar-Elon. He thanks you for your timely arrival."

Aerin Eldanar gave the seer a funny look. "Ar-Elon…of the King's Seers? What were you doing with them?" she asked suspiciously.

Ar-Elon, also known as Malborn, took a defensive posture. "Knowing you were here, I was biding my time. It is thankful that you arrived when you did. Come, you friends are likely engaging the orcs outside. We must hurry," he stated and ushered them back into the library.

Together, they sprinted down the stairs and, at the entrance to the tower, the sounds of battle could be heard.

As Amrith bolted out the tower entrance, he saw Baranor leading the Cardolani Royal Guards in an attack on the trolls, while Ostomir Tinare and Falathar Girithlin drove back the orcs.

With a shout, Amrith and the rest plodded through the snow to finish the assault, joined by a handful of Malborn's men.

Baranor dodge under a mighty swing of a troll's hammer and sprang back up, driving the point of his glassy blade deep into the monster's belly. Black blood flowed down the sword onto Baranor's gauntleted hands as he withdrew the weapon. The troll bellowed, but raised his arms for one last strike.

Seeing this, Valandil bounded through the drift and flayed the troll's leg open with a broad slash. On unsteady legs, the monster toppled over into the snow and was hacked several times by Cardolani warriors before it finally died.

With the exception of a few fleeing orcs and the raging wind, the area was still and all fighting died away.

Baranor walked to the wagons left behind and lifted the canvas covers to reveal the tomes. Haedorial and Aerin breathed a sigh of relief – the most secret and powerful books of knowledge and lore in the North had been saved.

With false smiles, Ar-Elon nodded to the group. "You have done King Araphor a great service. Come, let us bring the tomes inside and out of the weather. Ar-Elon will see to the return of the sacred texts."

As they brought the books into the observatory, Ar-Elon described how the minions of the Witch King had taken him unawares and forced him to cooperate. Seeing no alternative, he complied until help arrived.

In his long years, the tainted seer, Ar-Elon had learned that loyalty was a precarious thing. Regardless of who he was allied with, he would get what he wanted and now, it was delivered free of charge and he would also be a hero.


	15. Two Masters

W/N: Aloha Thug and Alan (Alan, leave a review, dagnabbit.) I'm also going to be getting back to the prequel, 'Demon Night' where we'll look at Mercatur and the fall of Rhudaur. I just saw the CSI premiere and I'm ready to collect trace evidence again.

**INSIDE THE TOWER – 7:50 PM**

Standing on the intricate tiled floor of the ground level of his mighty observatory, the Seer, Malborn raised his arms as if in prayer. "Those fiends attacked Ar-Elon's home. Is there nothing that is safe these dark days? Thank the Valar you were here," he said to the group in praise.

Valandil shot Mercatur a suspicious glance that the mercenary instantly recognized; the two had worked together for some time now.

However, Falathar Girithlin hung on his every word. "Great seer, it is a shame what had been done to your observatory."

Meanwhile, the Royal Knight, Baranor stood at the entrance to the tower, motioning with his gauntleted hand. "We need to bring the tomes inside. The storm is growing worse."

Everyone but Malborn scrambled outside into the howling wind where visibility was near zero in the dark. Lanterns were shrouded by the swirling snow as men staggered into the bitter cold of the Arthedan winter.

With surprising ease, Amrith the ranger scurried through the snow banks to the wagon, where an orc's frozen arm protruded from the white powder, its clawed fingers closed in a permanent fist. Unperturbed by the freezing temperature, Amrith began tossing the heavy tomes to waiting hands that passed them along to others.

With their breath streaming from their mouths, Valandil and Mercatur spoke in low tones. "I don't like this, mercenary," voiced the knight. "That seer was far too chummy with that creature and the elf."

Mercatur nodded. "I won't be sleeping too heavily tonight…and neither should you."

The books were soon housed in the tower and Malborn took great delight in perusing and cataloging them, mumbling to himself in gleeful tones. The seer's servants took the weary group to quarters and provided them with food and drink.

Valandil stood at the transparent wall that revealed a winter wonderland. The knight was oblivious to the ancient Númenorean technology that created such a marvel, but he had a healthy appreciation for the beauty beyond.

"Thinking of blondie, eh?" Mercatur voiced from behind.

Valandil gave a quick nod and turned back to see the mercenary reading by lamp light, the reflection of the flames dancing on his dark beard. "You read?" he asked, incredulously.

Mercatur snorted. "I wasn't always a barbarian from Rhudaur, but that's another story."

The knight nodded solemnly and then slid into his sleeping bag that was atop a luxurious throw rug on a gleaming wooded floor. Valandil's eyes were drawn to the reflection of the warm glow of the lamps in the polished boards and he soon drifted off to sleep to the sound of the crackling fireplace and the flipping of pages.

**The Next Day**

In the library, which had been cleaned and repaired by the servants, Malborn met with his 'saviors' to reward them. He gave to Valandil, a broadsword of mithril with a razor edge. The hilts were golden in color with a rune encrusted pommel.

"It was forged by the dwarves of Khazad-Dûm, known to you as Moria, more than an age ago. Ar-Elon is loath to part with it, but you have earned it."

The knight marveled at the weapon, which had a bluish sheen to the blade. The dwarven runes hinted of strange powers, deep in the depths of the dwarven kingdom.

Malborn then turned to Falathar and presented him with fine sword as well. Girithlin drew the blade, which had a runnel down the center to intricately carved hilts, appearing as dragon heads. Immediately, frost coated the metal of the blade. "Created by the magic of the elves of Imladris. Wield it well, Master Girithlin."

The seer then gathered the group. "We should depart for Fornost Erain. I am sure the King will be pleased by our recovery of the tomes." He led them back down the stairs to the now loaded wagon and away from the copies of many of the tomes that he had made overnight. The King would indeed be pleased, but which king, the seer kept hidden in his dark heart.

**Fornost Erain – Three Days Hence**

In the grand chamber of the King's Council, Artos Tarma, Lord of House Tarma, Lord Commander of the armies of Arthedain, and head of the Council, known as the Cordagar, watched with some suspicion as pages brought the many tomes before King Araphor and Princess Nirnadel. Tarma, ever a warrior, was always wary of the great seer, Malborn. The Cordagar had many suspicions about the recent war and Tarma firmly believed collaborators were to blame for the death of King Arveleg and the destruction of Annúminas and Amon Sûl. Although he liked the Cardolani, their presence here with Malborn did not win them any trust.

Tarma leaned over to Haros Eketta, the knight with the hideous wife. "I am most sorry about the death of your kinsman, Mallon. However, I wonder about our King's courtship of the young princess. Uniting our land with Cardolan may not be the most insightful course of action, after all the Cardolani failed to secure our flank."

Dressed in luxurious robes of state, Aerin Eldanar and Malborn bowed before the King. The seer raised his head and swept his hands toward the tomes in a dramatic gesture, swirling his scarlet cloak. "My King, it is Ar-Elon's pleasure to bring you the lost tomes of Annúminas. The servants of the Lord of Angmar paid dearly for their affront."

The young king smiled and rose from his throne to take a closer look at the magnificent books. With hands gloved in velvet, he selected a gilded text that spoke of the glory of Vinyalondë, a great city on the coast, built by Anardil Aldarion, then the Crown Prince of Númenor and friend to the elves of Lindon. There resided the Bar-en-Uinendil, the greatest fortress of its time. As he read the text, the King spoke, "Sadly, Aldarion had very poor relations with his daughter Tar-Ancalimë, who became the first Ruling Queen of Númenor when he retired. Three thousand, eight hundred years ago, a hurricane devastated all of Vinyalondë save the fortress. Ancalimë used this as an excuse to abandon the fortress and, without repairs and maintenance, the proud towers gradually were swept away."

Nirnadel and Haedorial looked intently over his shoulder, absorbing every word about the lost city that existed millennia ago in another age, when Númenor dominated the world.

"Your Highness," voiced the bard, "your learned brother, Braegil knew much of this. It was his dream to find the mithril room of Tar-Telemmaitë."

Nirnadel narrowed her gray eyes and lowered her head in memory of her slain brother. "We fear it was just a legend, good bard."

King Araphor turned, his ermine cloak swinging around him. "No, I believe it to be real. I know of Prince Braegil's hunt for the lost mithril. I understand that he was close to discovering its whereabouts."

"So he said before the war," the Princess answered solemnly.

The King let a faint smile escape from his lips. "I think it may be time to fulfill your brother's legacy. Would anyone care for another quest?"

**The Royal Palace of Arthedain – That Evening**

A roaring fireplace lit the den with glowing, orange light, casting long, dancing shadows across the hardwood floor and heavy throw rugs. Austere oil paintings of landscapes and the great seers of the kingdom adorned the richly paneled walls beneath the great, arched ceiling. Above the mantel rested a mithril eket, the short, stabbing sword of Arthedain's armies along with a staff, symbolizing the northern Dunedain's love of mysticism.

His voice soothing amid the crackle of the roaring fire, Baranor spoke of his long travels in the service of Cardolan. "You see, Your Highness, Cardolan is much more like our southern neighbor, Gondor, in warrior spirit. The Gondorians see war as a business; conquer the enemy, take his lands. Arthedain, I would dare say, is much more…elvish in its outlook. They rely on seers and the stars to guide them. Other than their wars with our kingdom and with Rhudaur, they have no territorial ambitions."

"As a knight errant, I had traveled both lands and found respect for both. Eldacar, King of Gondor, has seen that diplomacy is also a great tool and he has made solid alliances with the Northmen, who are powerful riders. The Gondorian fleet under Castimir controls the seas and trade flourishes. Your Highness, we will survive this dark time and Cardolan will be great once again."

The young woman thought upon what her guard had said. "We thank you for your counsel, brave Baranor. With your guidance, our land is sure to recover." She then cocked her head, her eyes reflecting the orange blaze from the fireplace. "What preparations will be made for our quest?"

"Our…quest?"

"Yes, 'our quest.' It has been decided that King Araphor shall lead us and that We shall accompany the sortie," Nirnadel said mischievously.

"Your Highness, it's not going to happen."

The Princess patted the knight on the head as she rose from the plush couch. "You know what happened the last time We were told 'no.' This is our brother's legacy. Please make adequate preparations for our departure.

Baranor bit his lip. "Yes, Your Highness. We will have some time as we cannot depart until Gwirith, three months hence. It is still too cold."

Nirnadel glided off toward her bedchamber, where Kaile and old Anariel awaited. "Good night to you, Baranor," she chimed as her ladies ushered her away.

Nearby, Valandil sat with Mercatur at an intricately carved dining table that still bore platters of leftovers and mugs from the earlier festivities. The mercenary fiddled with his axe, wanting to sink it into the back of a chair, but thought better of it; something was gnawing at him though.

Valandil saw this and knew his mind. "So, you getting civilized in your old age?"

"Hrmph…I'm only holding back out of respect for the Princess. Any other place and 'kathunk', the axe finds a new home. Valandil, I must know this…what happened to the blonde woman…the mage?"

The knight shrugged. "Kaile said she vanished soon after we left Annúminas. She was the one with the bronze wyvern. I think-"

"Angmar's bones! I should have spoken to her. We were in such a rush to pursue those rats. She has the blood of House Rhudainor…I'd swear it." The mercenary took on a dark look and downed a mug of ale, letting droplets roll down his thick beard. "Look, we've fought together for a bit now and I'd daresay you were…a…friend," he said with difficulty. "I've never told anyone about this, but what happened to me in Rhudaur…it…it changed me…forever. My honor was lost."

Valandil didn't quite know how to take the compliment. "You've never let me down, Mercatur. Whatever you think of yourself, I hold you in the highest esteem."

The big Rhudauran drained another mug. "Pah…look at us. Getting sentimental…In Rhudaur, there was no time for sentiment. So, you going to wed blondie?"

Valandil smirked at the sudden change of topic. "You're drunk, big man. Come, best we get some rest."

Mercatur staggered off to bed and Valandil finished the mug of ale. "I understand lost honor, my friend. I am the sole survivor of my entire unit. I understand," whispered the knight.

**Ro Malborn – the Seer's Observatory**

Atop the great tower of the Seer, Malborn, the clamshell dome of the observatory stood open a crack to allow the chill night air and the light of Varda's stars into the structure to be captured by a mighty Palantír.

The tainted Seer gazed into the glowing orb, set on a mithril stand carved in the likeness of a great wave.

He stood on the south side of the orb, looking north until his mind entered the land of Angmar. There, he focused his energy.

"Lord of Angmar…wait…do not be hasty, I have not betrayed you. In fact, I have the tomes that you seek. It was necessary to deceive your lesser servants to ensure that I could deliver your prizes. My servants will make the proper arrangements."

The orb went dark and Malborn stepped back, covered in perspiration, his skin steaming in the cold. Communicating from orb to orb was tiring, but communicating to a lesser stone meant sheer exhaustion for a mortal user.

However, a smile covered Malborn's face. He could indeed serve two masters.


	16. Realpolitik

Evan still - Alice is really on a roll. She must be bored, she keeps emailing me more stuff to post. She always was a LOTR fan first and foremost. This chapter is about succession disputes and palace intrigue and how naivete might cost a kingdom. I'm a fan of frosty mornings, so I like this setting. I'm glad I can indulge Alice in her love of writing.

**Fornost Erain – The Palace of the King – Early Morning**

A thick fog had gathered outside of the palace, which was coated in frost and icicles. In the slowly gathering, but diffuse light, a rider sped up the cobblestone road, hoof beats clattering along, growing louder by the minute.

The rider, clad in a surcoat of the Royal Family of Cardolan, shouted up at the sentries manning the gate to the palace. "I bear a message for the Princess of Cardolan from Chancellor Nimhir. Open the gate."

The Arthedan guards peered down into the soupy mist and waved to the warden below. The grinding of heavy chains could be heard and soon, the massive portcullis cranked upward, allowing the messenger to enter.

"Please bear me quickly to the Princess. I have an urgent message on a matter of state."

The warden, clad in shiny half plate armor, nodded as the rider dismounted. A groom quickly took the horse as the warden marched off toward the keep. Droplets of moisture beaded and rolled down the buffed metal plates and bassinet of the warden as he strode along through a lush garden, kept warm by enchanted heaters. The rider marveled at the bright flowers, blooming in the winter landscape of the Arthedan capitol.

With breath steaming, the two approached the fortified keep and two armored sentries snapped halberds to attention and then opened the great doors. A valet immediately took the cloak of the rider to be dried and hung for his departure as another servant carried in a platter of fruit and juice.

The messenger rubbed his nose and then his hands to shake out the chill and then gratefully accepted refreshment.

As he gulped the fluid from the glass, Baranor came bolting down the broad, circular stairway. "Pelendur, greetings my friend. News of your coming has preceded you."

Pelendur, a fellow Royal Guardsman and the conspirator with Nirnadel's escapades, smiled broadly. "Well, you have me at a disadvantage. Without a Palantír, we remain somewhat blind. You will have to fill me in on your adventures later; I bear an urgent message for the Princess. We will be returning to Tharbad as soon as possible."

The captain raised an eyebrow. "Something is wrong?" he said more as a question than a statement.

"We must speak in private."

The valet bowed low to the two warriors. "I shall take you to the chamber of the Princess. Walk this way."

At the Mallorn Wood door, the valet rapped the bronze knocker, brining Anariel to answer in her nightcap. The old maid seemed irritated at first until she saw Pelendur. The expression on his face spoke volumes and she ushered the knights in, leaving the valet outside.

Anariel walked to a lantern, bringing its light to life and she left to wake the Princess. Pelendur warmed his hands over a glowing brazier full of hot coals as Baranor mixed tea leaves into a kettle.

Soon, Nirnadel appeared, dressed in heavy robes as Anariel brushed the Princess' hair. Barely concealed worry was cast upon her pale features. "Good Pelendur, We thank you for your long ride from Tharbad. Please, share your message with us."

The knight inhaled and removed a scroll tube from a pouch. He broke the wax Seal of the Chancellor and rolled the parchment out on a table. "There has been an attempt on the Chancellor's life. Nimhir has been wounded, but he is recovering."

Nirnadel and Anariel gasped as Kaile emerged from the shadows.

Pelendur nodded. "The assassin was slain, but we have no clues as to who may have sent him. This vile deed has highlighted an important matter of state – the Chancellor has no successor and Cardolan has no sovereign. Valar forbid, should he perish, we would have anarchy."

Baranor hissed. "I smell Girithlin in this."

Nirnadel furrowed her brows. "Do not be hasty, good sir. Angmar is ever up to no good and We have seen great things from Falathar. We do not think Mablung Girithlin would go so far."

The captain knew of the Princess' naiveté, but held his tongue.

"Your Highness," added Pelendur, "We must depart for Tharbad as soon as possible. There, you must preside over a ceremony to name the Chancellor's successor."

Nirnadel frowned. "If We understand Cardolan law, We have no authority to invest a successor as of yet and such a matter must go to a vote among the Hirdoms."

Baranor understood the underlying message. "Your Highness…it is not that simple…and Nimhir has the power to bring about such a ceremony. When Nimhir was voted in as Chancellor, it was a near run thing with four for him and three against. This time, we may not be so lucky and we _must _keep power out of the hands of Mablung Girithlin. Nimhir cannot choose his own successor…you must do it."

The Princess was shocked at such political maneuvering and found it distasteful. "Kind Baranor, We will not manipulate the system…a system that our forebears founded and upheld for more than four hundred years of Cardolan's history. We find this abhorrent."

The captain bit his lip as the memory of a spoiled, prissy Nirnadel passed. "Your Highness…you may find it…difficult to believe, but your father, the great King Ostoher, learned about Realpolitik in his reign. Survival is often more important than law."

Nirnadel stood sharply. "You lie! You leave my father out of this. He was a good King and a good father."

"I'm not saying he wasn't, Your Highness. I'm saying he understood what it took to rule…and it's not always pretty."

"Enough," stated the Princess. "This conversation is at an end. We will sanction a vote as it was laid down in Cardolan law." She then turned to Anariel. "Make preparations for our departure."

With that, the women strode off, leaving the two knights in the chilly room. Pelendur shrugged as Baranor rolled his eyes.

The captain took a bite from one of the apples. The knowledge of what was to come churned his stomach. "Girithlin will be poised to rule the Kingdom. When he gains control of the Chancellery, he will force Nirnadel to marry his son…and then we'll be lost."


	17. Ambition

Evan's notes - thanks for reading, people. We have a question for demented chick. Could you give more details on giving more details? We're not sure we understand what it is that you want. Thanks for your input though.

**Tharbad – The Bar Aran – The month of Ninui**

In the Bar Aran, the house of the King, Mercatur stood at the back of the luxurious bedchamber of the Chancellor, staring out the window from the grand mansion. A thick blanket of snow covered the courtyard outside while tiny, crystalline flakes floated down from above.

The Rhudauran mercenary looked about the room, wondering how he had come from being a simple sell-sword to joining the ranks of royalty. It left a conflicted, bittersweet taste in his mouth. For most of his life, all he had known were wars, skirmishes, and the feel of gold in his hands. The expensive trinkets that adorned the chamber were entirely alien to him; a roof over his head and a mug of ale were normally all he required.

He thought briefly about the home he had left behind – a stark, austere land of rocky hills and primeval forests, mostly untouched by man or elf…or orc. It had once been the province of the exiled Dúnedain from Númenor – the tall men from tall ships. It was the land of Elendil and Isildur, great kings of old, but through guile and treachery, it fell into ruin and was now the home of dark things and abominations.

Mercatur shuddered, but not from the chill air.

However, something felt right about being here in this place of nobility and he even felt some concern for the wounded Chancellor as he lay sleeping in his bed, covered in bandages across his chest as healers attended to him.

The big man walked over the Firiel Halatani, the Healer and asked quietly, "How is he?"

The blonde woman stood from a steaming bowl of herbs and glanced up at Mercatur. "He'll recover. It will take time and rest." The Healer then gazed into his eyes, finding something. "Mercatur…you…look different somehow - softer, more intelligent."

The Rhudauran pulled his chin back and curled one side of his mouth up. "Angmar's bones, woman, how insulting. I've been spending too much time among civilized folk."

"I'll take that as a compliment," answered Firiel with a faint smile. She then returned to administer a dose of medicine to the Chancellor, who drank with groggy gulps, letting the liquid sooth his parched throat.

The mercenary went back to the window and turned his brown eyes out to the snowy landscape once again. He thought about how some semblance of order had returned to the great city as he noticed how the streets were carefully swept free of ice and foot traffic flowed along the sidewalks of King's Row.

His attention was then drawn to a magnificent sled that was departing the Bar Aran, drawn by four powerful horses. Mercatur immediately noticed the raven-haired princess seated in the maroon and gold vehicle, accompanied by Baranor and three guards. Valandil trotted besides them astride a large warhorse.

As they rode out of sight, Mercatur returned to his musings on how much his life had changed. For better or worse, Cardolan was now his home.

**Along the Menetar Road **

The great sled drew southward along the grand avenue, known as the Menetar. The ancient way was paved during the reign of Tar-Aldarion, the great mariner of Númenor, some 3000 years ago. With the technology of the ancients and the magic of the elves, the road had endured nearly intact for all of the long centuries of Dúnedain rule.

The knight, Valandil rode ahead of the royal entourage, yelling for people to clear the street. The procession crossed over the southern bridge, known as the Iant Harnen and under the great Ryncaras Tharbad, the southern gatehouse.

As the sled came to pass the southern docks, Valandil could see vessels under construction. He was then surprised to see Cardolani sailor turned out in their uniforms to salute the Princess. Captain Asgon, Lord of the small fleet, bowed low as the sled drove by.

The knight was also surprised to see two tall, blond men there – elves.

_What could elves be doing here? I wonder…._

The procession turned a street corner to cross the Cherant Aran Canal and came to a stop in front of the Gondorian Embassy.

A vote was to be held on neutral ground.

Baranor, in a dour mood, opened the door to the sled to allow Anariel and Kaile to step out. The two women assisted the Princess out while Gondorian knights lay a rich, red carpet before the sled.

Nirnadel walked down the steps of the sled and looked up at the large embassy, her breath streaming from her nostrils. Appearing impassive, her stomach churned within her body at the thoughts of the upcoming proceedings – this would be her first official act. Soon, Hir Girithlin, Hir Tinare, and Hir Calantir would arrive, along with the proxies of the other four Hirdoms.

Valandil held the reins of the horses, watching the Princess walk toward the embassy doors. How would this affect the fate of the Kingdom, he wondered? Most of all, how would this affect he and Firiel?

He inhaled the crisp, cold air, holding the horses in place.

When would this long winter end?

**The Gondorian Embassy**

Princess Nirnadel was led by Baranor and his men into the squat, dominating structure that was the Gondorian Embassy. She thought longingly about her recent visit to Arthedain and how King Araphor was so much like herself. She thought on how she had bid him farewell, promising to correspond. However, her idle musings were interrupted by more pressing matters – the life of her kingdom.

Ten Gondorian captains saluted with swords as she passed by the foyer, which held grand tributes to Gondor's martial prowess. Tall statues of Gondor's Kings flanked the massive room – Tarannon Falastur, Earnil, Ciryandil, and Hyarmendacil, the great conquerors, all the way to Eldacar, the current ruler of the Stone Land.

The young woman looked up at the proud men, mighty as the Argonath, and quailed. Although the blood of Isildur flowed in her veins, she was no mighty conqueror.

"They are designed to have such an effect on the viewer," a man said.

Nirnadel caught her breath and focused her eyes on a gentlemanly fellow, dressed in the livery of Gondor.

"Your Highness, I am Ciramir, Legate of Gondor," he added diplomatically with a sweep of his hand and a low bow. "We have met before, but in a different time."

Nirnadel nodded. "Yes, good Ciramir, We remember your arrival three years ago and that you are well traveled."

"Indeed, Your Highness. I have been from Far Harad to Annúminas in the North to Círdan's havens in Lindon and everywhere in between. I have not seen you since before the war and I wish to express my condolences for your family."

"We thank you, good sir. I much enjoyed your telling of your survival of the siege of Umbar last we met," said the Princess. "Come, we shall talk further afterwards. We wish to begin these proceedings to name the Chancellor's successor."

Ciramir bowed again and ushered the Royal entourage into the inner sanctum of the embassy. As they walked through the massive doors, flanked by proud Gondorian soldiers, the Legate narrowed his eyes. His main concern was whether the critical trade lines would remain open with Cardolan and Arthedain. The thought that future trade could rely on this young woman frightened him.

The Princess was given a royal seat in the chamber, which was soon full of diplomats and the Hiri of the Kingdom. Mablung Girithlin was all smiles as the aged Celeph Calantir was carried to his seat.

As people milled about and the murmur of voices grew, Ciramir stood and raised his hands. "Good nobles of the Kingdom of Cardolan, we gather here to discuss a matter of great import – the election of a successor to the Chancellery. As we all know, there was an attempt on the Chancellor's life and the culprit has yet to be identified. To avoid the possibility of civil war, there needs to be continuity in this government. Let it come to a vote here."

Girithlin immediately spoke, "Legate Ciramir, first off, you have no business facilitating the internal affairs of Cardolan. Second, the Princess has not yet reached the age in which she can manage these affairs. Third, I am descended from the great Eldanar Family and, by blood, it is my right to be selected."

Nirnadel chafed, but she was stopped from speaking by Ciramir's rebuttal. "Lord Girithlin, Chancellor Nimhir selected me personally for this assignment and has granted the Princess provisional authority to conduct this specific duty. I assure you, it is perfectly legal."

Mablung sucked his teeth. "Pah, this is another attempt by Nimhir to manipulate the system to his favor. I see right through this farce."

The Princess could stand it no more. "Gentlemen, to avoid the appearance of impropriety, We have concluded that a fair vote will decide the issue."

Girithlin sat back with a grin. "We have no objection to that. Let the vote proceed."

Baranor grimaced and glanced at Pelendur. "He folded all too easily."

**The Gondorian Embassy – One Hour Later**

Hir Girithlin smiled broadly as Ciramir read the results. "I hereby declare Mablung Girithlin as the successor to the Chancellery, should Nimhir pass in untimely death or incapacity. The vote is final."

Girithlin lifted his massive frame from his seat and gave a nod to his cousin, Barahir, Hir of Feotar and to Minastan, the Mayor of Tharbad.

Nirnadel had just cut her own throat and ambition was often its own reward.


	18. Conspiracies and Cold Journeys

Alice says hi and that she's safe. Unfortunately, someone she knew is not.

We want to continue to explore the politics of the realm and set up an interesting shift of alliances. We also want to draw reference to the Numenoreans, from where so much of the culture and conflict comes from. If you didn't know, they came from an Atlantis like island and nearly conquered the world (Endor) with their grand fleets and amazing technology. However, they captured Sauron and he corrupted them. In the end, Sauron convinced them to invade Valinor, the land of the god-like Valar and they, the Numenoreans, were annihilated along with their island, Numenor. A number of the faithful escape under Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anarion, who founded Gondor and Arnor.

**Balost – The month of Ninui**

In the snow-covered tower of Balost, also known as Barad Girithlin, a meeting was held to celebrate Mablung Girithlin's recent political victory. The great tower was the ancestral home to the Girithlin princes in the days of Arnor and now held sway over the lands managed by the Girithlin barons. Its construction heralded the dying days of Númenórean might in the sunset years of the Second Age and its heptagonal design was considered almost unique among the towers of the Dúnedain as was its alabaster covered walls.

"This fortress has withstood many sieges," boasted Mablung as he led his guests through the tasteful rock garden in the central courtyard of the tower on the ground level. "We are prepared for any eventuality."

Barahir, the Baron of Feotar nodded and looked at his brother Annael. "I'm glad we could come to some sort of arrangement, Hir Girithlin. I am looking forward to assisting you in the amber trade and I'm sure you could use the winter barley that we have been stocking."

Girithlin slapped Hir Feotar on the back. "I'm honored that you came around to my way of thinking. You and your brother accompanied the Princess to Arthedain and I know you are fond of her. I tell you now that I only think of her best interests and the interests of Cardolan."

Barahir nodded enthusiastically.

As they strode along, Annael, a tall, dark man of mixed Dúnedan blood, studied the defenses of the tower with expert eyes.

Bringing up the rear, Falathar Girithlin trailed behind, glancing at the enchanting rock formations and well-tended plants in the garden. His thoughts were preoccupied by the Princess, who was troubled by politics in their last meeting. He so wanted to comfort her and show her that he would give them a better life and a better chance for Cardolan.

The group continued past a magnificent reflecting pond that was fed by a small spring. Two intricately carved figurine spouted water, casting rippled in the pool. Mablung gazed down at his reflection in the water and smiled – his ascendancy was assured.

The four nobles sat on stone benches, flanked by four Girithlin knights. Mablung leaned in toward the Feotars with a conspiratorial expression.

"I intend to press Falathar's suit to marry Nirnadel. With the power I have gathered, that fool, Nimhir will have to acquiesce. Falathar will be named the new King of Cardolan and we shall abolish the position of Chancellor. From that point forward, the Kingdom will once again be strong and free of foreign control. We will expel Arthedain and retake eastern Cardolan from the Rhudaurans. I know we see eye to eye here."

Barahir smiled broadly. After all, a reinvigorated Cardolan was what they all wanted.

**The Houses of Healing **

Firiel Halatani brushed her blonde hair from her face and breathed a sigh of relief. The number of plague victims had been declining and the recent intervention of the Princess had repaired the aqueduct systems, cleaning out the city's water supply. Additionally, a very important patient had shown much improvement.

"I hear the Chancellor is up and around," voiced Valandil as he approached the Healer from behind and massaged her shoulders.

Firiel cooed and closed her eyes. "He is doing quite well…physically. Upon the breaking of his fever, he was notably perturbed by the recent political events. I daresay he was very upset with Nirnadel."

The knight cocked his head. "I grew up in Girithlin and my opinion of the Hir is high. After all, he was the only surviving Lord of those present at Tyrn Gorthad. His warrior skills are legendary."

Firiel lowered her head for a moment. "Yes, Tyrn Gorthad…I don't think of that place very often any more."

Valandil nodded sadly. He was about to speak when Jonu entered and brought a letter for the Healer. She took it and examined the wax seal, noting the insignia of her mother's family in Lindon. She excitedly tore the wax, letting the red crumbs scatter on the dark wooden table.

Firiel read the letter quickly, scanning the Sindarin runes, written by an elfin hand. "My mother in Lindon…she has heard of the plight of our house and is sending medicines to assist us. We are to meet her in Bree."

"I had forgotten that you are half elven," mused Valandil. "We would have to journey through Tyrn Gorthad once again."

"Since the war, the downs of Tyrn Gorthad are desolate. We should be safe. Let us prepare to depart." The Healer rose and handed the letter back to Jonu. It was times like this that she missed Kaile…and Nel.

**The Great North Road**

Snow covered the broad road that had linked Arthedain to Cardolan for the past three thousand years. Tar-Minastir, the Númenórean King that defeated Sauron after the fall of Ost-in-Edhil in the middle of the Second Age, commissioned his Admiral, Pharconatar, to pave the road to link the Dunedain citadels of the North.

Pharconatar used the might and technology of the Númenóreans to build a road that would stand the test of time. Fifteen hundred years in the future, hobbits would traverse the same stretch of road on an epic journey.

On this day in 1410 of the Third Age, four horses plodded along through the snow as the bitter wind howled along the barren landscape. The primordial forests that once covered Cardolan an age ago were leveled to build the fleets that fulfilled Númenórean ambitions.

Firiel squinted her eyes in the swirling winds as flakes danced around her. She pulled her thick blue cloak about her slender frame as her teeth chattered. "I…I don't seem to have inherited my mother's immunity to the cold," she complained to Valandil and Mercatur.

Haedorial the bard piped in, "Good lady, was it not possible for your mother to send the shipment all the way to Tharbad?"

"I'm afraid not. My mother is rather spiteful of our city and refuses to go there. Bree is as far as she will travel, I'm afraid." Firiel thought deeply for a moment. "I have not seen her in some time…maybe twenty years."

Mercatur wrinkled his nose in the cold. "Twenty years…not since you were a child?"

The Healer laughed. "I have not been a child in a long time, sir. I am fifty five years old. We half elves live a long time." She did not look a day over twenty.

The mercenary snorted. He did not trust anything elvish and began to regret letting Valandil talk him into this.

Just then, the howl of a wolf rang out. Mercatur's attention was drawn to it.

"It's just a wolf," said Valandil reassuringly.

The mercenary shook his head. "Not a wolf…a warg. Twice as big and five times as mean…and they come in packs."

Suddenly, a cloaked figure was among them. He was thin and clad in white. He quickly pulled his hood off, revealing his pale features and pointed ears.

"They're right behind me! We have to flee!"


	19. Wargs on the Downs

Alice here! For a week... I'm almost done with another KOTOR chapter. We have a little education about the elves now. Expect more dwarves later.

**The Old North Road**

With the sudden arrival of this newcomer – and an elf at that, Valandil bristled, his new, knightly armor rattling in the stiff cold wind. "Who are you and what is behind you?"

The elf flashed his green eyes beneath wildly waving sandy, blonde hair. "I am Ascarnil and there is no time to explain." He looked quickly behind him where the sounds of baying wargs could be heard close at hand.

The knight grasped Ascarnil's hand and pulled him up on his horse, whereupon the elf shouted something to the animal. Valandil was surprised by the intensity with which his mount bolted away from the approaching beasts to be followed by the others.

The horses kicked up gouts of snow as they fled from the enemy. Firiel looked back over her shoulder and gasped. "By the Valar!" Barely shrouded by the falling snow and wind were a dozen massive wargs ridden by snarling orcs with spears, their paws pounding the soft ground with incessant strides.

Haedorial needed no encouragement to ride.

With cool precision, Mercatur unsheathed his crossbow at the gallop and twisted his body left to angle for a shot. He sighted his target down the shaft of the bolt and pressed the trigger, unleashing the black dart. The bolt leapt into the air, its feathers gripping the air to give it spin and, in an instant, it sank into the forehead of a warg. The great beast, as big as a horse, toppled into the snow bank, hurling its rider forward with a squeal.

The elf followed suit and brought out a composite bow made of fine woods and sinews. With a masterful eye, Ascarnil took aim as he drew the string back. The bow sang as a long arrow shot forth and into the eye of a warg. The giant wolf crashed to the ground, crushing its rider beneath.

Firiel thought briefly of drawing her bow, but her skill with it on horseback was nonexistent and she focused on keeping her horse ahead of the deadly monsters. Her breath shot out in streams in the icy chill as she looked back and forth between what lay ahead and the angry horde behind.

Firiel's sharp eyes focused through the thick flurry on a line of hills ahead. The Barrow Downs – the ancient and sacred burial grounds of the Edain.

The Healer glanced over to Valandil as she hung onto the saddle for dear life. He looked back at her, knowing that they would be entering the cairns that were built by their forefathers more than five thousand years ago. The men and women that were interred there fell during the great wars of Beleriand, fighting beside the likes of Finrod Felagund and Fingon, lords of the Noldorin elves. These epic battles, like the men and elves who fought them, were now only the stuff of legend.

They also knew that this was the place where Cardolan's army was ground to dust by the iron fist of the Witch King and that this was Ostoher's final resting place.

Despite their misgivings, they drove their mounts forward as Ascarnil took aim once again. Another arrow flew back, imbedding itself into the throat of a warg, toppling it into the raging storm.

Mercatur swerved his horse toward Valandil and called to the elf. "Which tribe?"

With his sandy blonde hair whipping in the breeze, the elf looked back and raised an eyebrow. "Sulmog-vrás…why?"

"Sulmog-vrás?" echoed the mercenary. "You must be pretty important. They don't have many left after the war."

"Thanks to the elves," finished Ascarnil with some pride.

The four horses began to climb the first of the Barrow Downs, galloping slowly through the thick drifts, steam rolling off of their warm bodies. Ascarnil patted Valandil on the shoulder. "I'll turn and fight here. Thanks for evening the odds for me."

"What? You'll be killed!" answered the knight. "There are still nine of them."

"Great idea," Mercatur stated as he reloaded his crossbow.

The elf slid gracefully down the back of Valandil's horse and drew a long sword from a leather scabbard. The weapon immediately glowed yellow and Ascarnil yelled, "Runya!" causing the blade to burst into flames.

Valandil shook his head with frustration and turned, drawing his own dwarven-forged weapon. He turned his horse about just as Ascarnil sliced through an orc spear. The elf then spun and cut through the two forelegs of the warg. The beast howled as it crashed into the snow, throwing its rider.

The hissing orc rose and drew a sharp scimitar and turned toward the elf in time to be shot by another bolt from Mercatur. The black shaft penetrated clean through the brute's chest and it looked down at the wound momentarily before collapsing.

As Ascarnil's sword blazed in the swirling snow, throwing up steam, Firiel and Haedorial dismounted on the crest of the hill. The half elf woman drew her short bow as the bard hunkered down in a snow drift. His eyes found two orcs charging at Valandil with spears outstretched. Focusing his energies, he cast a silent voice between the enemy and their warg mounts crashed into each other.

Valandil's eyes opened wide at the sudden change in his fortunes. He spurred his horse forward and lopped the head off of one orc with a wide swing. He recovered his guard in time to parry a thrust from the second orc and the two traded blows.

A small arrow punctured the orc's mount, but to little effect and the giant warg leapt at Valandil. Its huge bulk pounded him, knocking him sideways off of the saddle. Together, they crashed into the snow – man, horse, warg, orc, throwing up white powder.

Stunned, Valandil shook his head and saw the razor blade of a scimitar coming down at him. All he could do is turn his face, letting the weapon strike his helmet. The ring of metal on metal reverberated through his head as he instinctively drew his dagger and plunged in into the orc's thigh.

The orc howled and drew the point of his scimitar back, showing off its long curved edge. As it began its thrust, the squeal of a warg distracted it for a moment. Valandil saw Mercatur's axe fall hard upon the spine of the warg and he knew his opportunity was at hand. He kicked the orc's injured leg and reached for his sword. In a broad sweep, Valandil raked the edge across the orc's belly, spilling blood into the snow.

Mercatur stepped over and pulled the knight up. "We're hard pressed and they have reinforcements on the way. We must make for the Old Forest," he said, pointing west.

The orcs had fallen back for the moment and Valandil peered through the falling flakes to see the faint line of trees that made up the Old Forest, known to the elves as Taur Iaur.

Haedorial came forward and looked in the same direction. "They say an ancient sorcerer lives there. It is fraught with danger."

Ascarnil joined them, sheathing his flaming sword. "The Rhudauran is right. It's our only hope."

The bard looked at the elf curiously. "You spoke…Quenya earlier. That is the language of the High Elves…the Noldor."

"So, that is why the orcs want you so bad," voiced Mercatur. "We don't see a lot of you elfies out and about these days."

Ascarnil nodded. He was slender, but short for an elf, standing three inches under six feet. His sandy blonde hair spoke more to his being a Woods Elf, unlike the raven-haired Noldor. "Indeed. My mother is of the Noldor. I thank you for your assistance," he said cautiously, observing his new companions. Sensing that they were not of the enemy, he continued, "I am on a…quest from Elrond. It is of the utmost importance that I complete it."

"We'll do what we can," offered Firiel. "I am merely going to meet my mother in Bree."

Ascarnil nodded thankfully and slung his bow over his shoulder. The group gathered their horses and began to make their way toward Taur Iaur.

In the falling snow, Haedorial leaned in close to Valandil. "Evil things happen in that forest and, did you see the elf's sword?"

The knight nodded. "It's impressive."

"The runes on the blade are in the ancient Noldorin Tengwar script and are a blessing and a curse. The sword is an orc and troll bane…but it draws them to the wielder like a flame draws moths."

Valandil's eyes widened. "You mean that-"

Haedorial nodded. "Yes, orcs will be coming after us as long as he's with us."


	20. Barrows and Battles

**The Barrow Downs**

**Valandil**

Four horses plodded slowly through the white landscape, passing rolling hills. Atop one brown mare, Valandil put his hands together to offer a prayer to Varda in this most holy of lands of the Dúnedain. Nearby, the atheistic Mercatur observed this, but spoke no word. To him, a mercenary, there were no gods, no Valar, no higher power – there was only a strong axe, a bag full of gold, and a straight ride to battle.

The five travelers fidgeted nervously as the ring of orcs closed in, dogging them with every step, their numbers growing by the hour.

"We should attack them now!" urged the elf, Ascarnil, his hand grasping the handle of his amazing sword.

Valandil heard Firiel shout back over the howl of the icy wind, "Don't be foolish. We'll all be killed. We must seek shelter in the forest."

The elf grunted in frustration as the group passed a snow-covered barrow. A plain, metallic door kept the interior of the barrow from the elements and Sindarin runes announced the occupant – Ostoher, King of Cardolan.

Valandil shuddered as she recalled the King's last hour and the onslaught of the Troll warlord, Rogrog.

_I am sorry, my king. I could not save you. I am not sure I can save myself today. I pray for your rest and for our salvation._

Unexpectedly, Mercatur veered his horse toward the stone barrow, its hooves crunching in the soft snow. "Come, I'll bet the King has quite a trove. We could use some extra help about now."

"No," answered Valandil firmly, his breath steaming. "This is sacred ground. We must not disturb the King."

"What?" countered the mercenary, his beard whipping in the wind, the rings of his thick chainmail chiming. "You're going to let us die because of a dead king? We could easily enter that barrow and be back in minutes."

Haedorial the bard shook his head sternly. "Valandil is right. We cannot disturb the resting place of our King. It would be sacrilege."

Mercatur grit his teeth and his hand went down to his axe, but he inhaled the cold air and then waved his hand dismissively. "Paah, old women…. I think the elf is right, but let us continue running."

Peering into the distance, Firiel pointed her gloved hand westward. "Look, a line of trees. That must be the Old Forest."

"Aye," commented Ascarnil as he pinched his face up with concern. "It is known as Taur Iaur. Let us go there then, but be forewarned – there is peril within its confines."

With renewed purpose, Valandil led the group on into the coming darkness as the snow continued to fall around them, obscuring visibility with misty swirls. They passed another series of burial mounds, but these were older than Ostoher's…far more ancient.

Ascarnil lowered his head as they trotted by. "These are the barrows of the princes. Long before my time, the men of the Edain fought beside my forebears in the great wars of Beleriand. In the time of the Finrod Felagund, the Lord of the great city, Nargothrond, the men awoke and many joined the cause of the Noldor. They were valiant and stout of heart. Within this tomb lies Imrahil, a great warrior, felled by the fires of the Balrog, Lungorthin."

"Balrog? What's a Balrog?" asked Mercatur with a grunt.

Valandil heard Haedorial gasp at the mention of the ancient evil. "None now exist…but they were servants of the Dark Lord…creatures of fire. Thrice as tall as a tall man, they wielded whip and blade of flame. It was in the lost city of Gondolin that Ecthelion of the Fountain threw down Gothmog, the mightiest of Balrogs -"

The mercenary raised his eyebrow, which had frosted over and silenced the wordy bard. "Ahem…Hmmm, sounds tough. So, this Imrahil must have some goodies with which we could fight the orcs?"

Ascarnil nodded. "It is true, but we do not intrude upon the rest of the fallen princes. Come, let us continue on; the forest is near at hand."

The elf received no response and he turned to look at Mercatur, but the mercenary was gone. Valandil shook his head. "Damn him." The knight looked back through the swirling snow and saw the orcs in the distance. Reluctantly, he pointed to the group members. "Fan out, we've got to find him quickly."

**Mercatur**

"There is no way that I'm going to pass up a treasure trove such as this," the mercenary said to himself as he stood before a great mound, ringed with frost-covered standing stones. With a long dagger, he poked his way through the blanket of snow until he heard a metallic _clink_ and knew he had hit a portal.

Now excited, Mercatur pushed the thick flakes away, revealing a grand door, fabricated from metals beyond his understanding. He pushed the door to no avail and then yanked at the handle.

"Damn elven sorcery. How's a man suppose to get what's inside?"

A voice startled him. "A man is not suppose to get what's inside." It was Ascarnil with Haedorial behind him.

Mercatur reached for the handle of his axe, but the elf stayed him with an outstretched palm. "Hold, I am not here to harm you. It would appear that you are right. I have no wish to perish here. We are going into the barrow, but you must return everything that we find within. Is that clear?"

The mercenary looked long and hard at the slender elf until a grin broke across his bearded face. With a chuckle, he nodded. "Fine, elfie. Let's make it quick though."

With a mildly disgusted look, Ascarnil removed a key from his pouch and inserted it into a hole that Mercatur had not previously seen. The elf then uttered an incantation and the great door grinded open.

Haedorial gasped with wonder as Ascarnil led them down a thirty-foot corridor to a central chamber. They filed in and an orb, that hung from a mithril chain, began to glow, giving the room a soft light. Mercatur looked around at writings on the wall that were meaningless to him.

The bard's mouth hung open. "That is the history of the House of Beor, written in Quenya, Sindarin, and Adúnaic."

"Indeed," answered Ascarnil. "Hurry, there is little time. This way, to the tomb of Ostoher and Imrahil."

"Ostoher? The dead king?" asked Mercatur.

The elf shook his head as he walked to an open doorway ahead. "No, this was Ostoher of the House of Beor and kin to Beren of old. He was slain battling a dragon." The others followed Ascarnil into the tomb, where an enormous bejeweled bed dominated the room. Mercatur's eyes were immediately drawn to a man and a woman lying on the bed as if at rest. The man's elegant features and golden hair seemed untouched by the violence of his last battle and the eons that had past, such was the power of the elves of old. The woman's beauty was beyond anything that Mercatur had seen, but her face seemed to hold a despair that shook him.

The mercenary blinked and then noticed Haedorial quickly scribbling notes as Ascarnil donned a black chainmail shirt and leggings. The elf seized a sword, which he quickly drew. The blade was covered in runes and glowed a pale blue.

"The orcs are upon us, we must go."

"Where's mine?" asked Mercatur sourly.

"Go to the other chamber and take the weapon and armor. Be quick."

Mercatur rushed away as Ascarnil charged back to the entrance, leaving Haedorial with his books. The mercenary entered another tomb and grabbed a sword and shield. He then ran past the bard and back down the corridor where the sound of battle greeted him.


	21. Tombs and Tomes

**The Barrow Downs**

**Haedorial**

As the elf, Ascarnil, and the mercenary, Mercatur, scrambled for weapons and armor, Haedorial stood in awe of the ancient tomb. The stout bard held his notebook open, writing furiously, oblivious to the approach of the enemy.

_I considered myself well-traveled, but I never dreamed I would be standing inside the tomb of the great kings of old. I can just feel the magic surrounding this chamber. The stone work is magnificent, likely crafted by the masons of the lost Noldorin city of Nargothrond. Unlike the dwarven masons, the elves built their underground halls with an airy feel and this place fits that motif perfectly._

_The script on the walls is in the ancient Tengwar, the characters of the Noldor, as well as the runes of the Sindar and the ancient men. It details the noble history of the house of Beor and I will try to write as much of it as I can in another book. The script glows faintly under the light of the orb, not doubt enchanted by some means. The wondrous thing is the characters move upon the wall to match where the reader's eye falls. Amazing._

_I am now in the tomb of the ancient lord, Ostoher. He is dressed in the finest of robes of silver and red and his blond hair is neatly combed. The script in this chamber reveals that he perished fighting a dragon of Morgoth. All of the dragons are said to have perished in the War of Wrath, but I am not so sure. As a bard, I have heard tell of great worms hidden in the far north. The Northmen claim that there is a foul beast they call Scatha that is slumbering in the southern mountains. But, I digress._

_I am in awe at how the elves repaired Ostoher's broken body, but yet, they could not restore him to life._

_Besides him lies his lady, Silwë. Such a lovely woman. It says that she died of grief for the loss of her lord. The tale of the early men is one of great nobility, yet great tragedy. The lady wears a mithril headband with a single green emerald the size of the tip of my thumb. Her robes are woven with silver thread and her necklace is of mithril, laced with emeralds._

_I cannot fathom what enchantments have kept their bodies intact for more than five thousand years. I am humbled by their magnificence._

_Along the walls of the chamber are many chests. I have opened one that is full of gold coins and jewels. I am not here for treasure, but for knowledge and I shall not pilfer the resting place of these noble people._

_By the Valar, one chest holds a great book, bound in gray leather. It is embossed with the Tengwar script – 'Of the Elements.' There is another book beneath. It is heavy and bound also bound in gray leather. There are two characters in Tengwar written upon them that only a bard or other learned person could read. The style is ancient, beyond even the Wars of Beleriand. 'Este' 'Irmo'. The names of two of the Valar. Could this be? I must open it. By the Valar!_

**Valandil**

Outside of the barrow, the knight turned his horse to avoid the charge of a warg rider and a spear passed by his side. He drew back his arm and chopped the orc in the neck with his fine broadsword. The blade sliced through the orc's steel gorget and into flesh, sending a spray of black blood into the snow. With a shriek, the orc tumbled off of its mount and the warg barreled into Valandil's horse.

As the warg snarled, the horse reared in panic and Valandil slid from the saddle into the soft snow. The blanket of flakes cushioned his fall and he quickly got to his feet to block a spear thrust with his shield.

"Firiel, get to the barrow. Find the others!" he yelled as he thrust the point of his weapon into the belly of another warg. A small arrow sank into the beast's face and it howled in agony, toppling on its rider.

Valandil looked back to see Firiel notch another arrow. "I said get back!" he yelled again, but she seemed to be ignoring his pleas.

The knight stepped over the dying warg and thrust his sword into the heart of the helpless orc, but another two riders were upon him. The first warg slammed into Valandil, its teeth digging into his shield, tearing wood from its frame. Valandil fell backward, leaving his shield in the beast's fangs. A spear point jammed into his mail shirt, rattling the close-knit rings and bruising his flesh beneath. The point caught on the links of the knight's mail and he used that moment to chop the wood with his sword.

With his left hand now free, Valandil grabbed the broken shaft of the spear and yanked the orc down. He drew his arm back to strike, but the next attacker was on him and cut down upon his helm. The scimitar blade _clanged_ on the steel of Valandil's helmet, ringing his ears and he staggered back. He brought his arm up to parry again, but was relieved to see another arrow sink into the chest of the orc.

With his chest heaving and his breath coming in vents of steam, Valandil chopped at the riderless warg, the blade sinking into the beast's shoulder. His legs felt like rubber with fatigue and cold and he could not react in time to dodge away from the warg's charge. It slammed into him and its teeth crunched down on his left arm.

Valandil shouted in pain, but chopped down on the warg's neck, letting the blade bite into its hide. Another arrow sank into the beast, but it thrashed his head, rattling the links of chainmail.

The knight hacked again. "Where is Mercatur?" he bellowed.

This time, a crossbow bolt and a long-shafted arrow struck the warg and its jaws opened to cry out. Valandil pulled his wounded arm back and rammed the point of his sword into its maw.

Shouting from his flank bolstered his flagging spirits as Mercatur, now clad in black chainmail, rushed forward with his battle axe. From the other side, Ascarnil struck an orc, crying, "Runya!" The enchanted blade smote the orc, throwing flame and smoke into the air.

The mercenary swung down on another orc, chopping through its parry. The glistening blade clove its helmet and head, spattering blood. Mercatur yanked the weapon back out and turned to Valandil.

"We got held up. Here, take this sword," he said, tossing the weapon.

Valandil caught it by the handle and drew it from its ancient scabbard. The weapon shot from its sheath with a life of its own. He took a second to examine the blade, which seemed to have little weight. The metal was black and forged by enchantments long forgotten. Tengwar characters, which he could not read, adorned the length of the blade. An orc rushed at him and Valandil made a diagonal, one-handed cut. He prepared for the orc's parry and for their blades to meet, but the sword went cleanly through the scimitar and then passed through the orc with ease.

Valandil's mouth fell open with surprise as the orc fell to pieces into the snow. Instinctively, he swung back at an approaching warg and the blade clove away half of its head. "By the Valar!"

The orcs took notice of the sudden change of their fortunes and began scampering away amid the shrieks of their dying brethren and the howling of wounded wargs.

Valandil staggered to a rock to sit while Mercatur and Ascarnil finished off the beaten enemy. The knight took a moment to examine the sword, which was mysteriously devoid of any blood or gore, which covered him from dented helm to armored boot.

Firiel rushed to him and began looking at his wounded arm. The armor had borne the brunt of the bite, but he would have a nasty bruise. She quickly applied a patch of herbs, but Valandil seemed oblivious, so obsessed by the sword was he.

"Valandil…are you alright?"

The knight blinked, reluctant to take his eyes off of the unearthly beauty of the weapon. It seemed to be talking to him and he cocked his head as if listening to it.

"Valandil?"

This time, he looked at her with a blank expression. "Yes, my wounds are only minor. I'm glad you're alright. I thought we were done for."

She returned a weak smile. "Maybe my mother's herbs are not worth this risk. I cannot lose you…not now."

His old self seemed to be returning and he cupped his hand over her cheek. "We'll get through this. Remember, we've been through worse here," he said with a bittersweet laugh.

At that, Ascarnil stepped up and plucked the sword from Valandil's hands. "You fought well with _Sulring_. Yes, that is his name…forged by the hands of Maeglin in the fastness of Gondolin, the hidden city. He is a powerful weapon, but dark of heart. It is time for him to return." Ascarnil sheathed the sword and Valandil felt the urge to take the weapon back and strike Ascarnil.

The knight trembled for a moment as the elf took off the black chainmail that belonged to Ostoher. The elf smiled. "You should feel honored. _Sulring_ has not been wielded since the dawn of men. He, along with this armor that I wore, were forged of a meteoric metal known as Galvorn. You will feel his presence…and his thirst." Ascarnil then turned and walked to Mercatur.

"Mercenary, it is time. We must return the items to their rightful owners and seal the tomb."

Mercatur looked down upon the Galvorn rings of the armor, touching them lovingly with his finger. "I don't think so. This will be far more useful to the living than the dead."

The elf stopped, letting snow flakes fall between them. "I said it was time and hold you to your word."

"I said, I don't think so." Mercatur's hand drifted to the shaft of his axe.

Valandil shot up, his stupor now gone. "Wait! We must abide by the will of the elf here. These treasures are not for us despite their power. Their age is past and we cannot hope to wield them wisely."

Ascarnil nodded. "Well spoken. Elrond himself decreed that these barrows should remain undisturbed and I shall have to answer for that. Mercenary, you would not be able to travel ten leagues without Elrond's sons confronting you."

Mercatur didn't flinch. "Bring them on."

Valandil walked slowly over to him and put gentle hands on the mercenary's shoulders. "Let it go, friend. There will be other treasures. Our fight is not with the elves."

Suddenly, Mercatur burst into laughter. "Very well," he said and peeled off the armor. He tossed it to Ascarnil, who caught it deftly. "Put your toys back in their boxes. I care not."

The elf quickly returned to the barrow, where Haedorial staggered out in a daze.

Valandil trod over. "What happened?"

The bard looked confused. "I…I don't remember."

**Firiel**

The half elf woman sighed with relief at seeing Valandil's wounds: they were minor and the herbs would heal them quickly. Her skill in healing and herbal lore was the best in the Kingdom of Cardolan and most in her care recovered.

As the icy wind howled over the downs, Firiel gazed across the white landscape and, for a moment, her mind saw the Army of Cardolan fighting desperately against the host of Rogrog.

"_The enemy is upon us! Awake!"_

_Trumpets blared in the dead of night, rousing Firiel from sleep. She blinked her eyes heavily and swirled her tongue in her mouth. _

"_Rogrog is upon us! To arms, to arms!"_

_Fear shot through her limbs and she seized a short sword that lay upon her table. The sound of steel on steel rang through the warm night along with the cries of battle. Firiel's breath caught in her throat as she drew the weapon and stepped through the tent flaps._

_Men with torches ran about as others hastily pulled spears from racks. A cloud of arrows sailed overhead…black feathered arrows…the arrows of orcs._

_She grabbed a soldier by the arm. "What is happening? The King said we would be safe here. We wouldn't be attacked for days."_

_The man, with the coat of arms of House Girithlin, was near panic. "Flee for your life. Rogrog stole a march on us and - "_

_An arrow shot by the two and the soldier turned. Firiel saw an orc notching another black feathered arrow. The sigil of the red castle was on its helmet…the symbol of Angmar and the Witch King._

_The soldier instinctively rushed at the orc and hacked through its chainmail with a sword. The creature fell and the soldier struck again. Two orcs charged past him and pointed sharp scimitars at her while howling in their guttural language._

_Firiel stopped for a moment and then ran for all she was worth._

_She passed burning tents and scattered weapons while horses were screaming. She scooped up a short bow and a quiver and ran behind a barricade. She quickly notched an arrow and took a breath as her heart pounded in her chest. One orc rounded the barricade and searched the ground for her. Firiel let her fingers go slack and the bowstring twanged, propelling the shaft into the orc's chest._

_The creature shrieked and collapsed to the ground. Firiel notched another arrow with shaking hands as the second orc moved up. She held the string to her ear for a moment before firing again. The shaft leapt into the orc's face through its iron helmet, but the beast staggered forward, raising its scimitar. She launched another arrow into its chest and still it walked toward her. A third arrow shot into its neck and the orc fell a foot from her, its weapon slashing into the grass._

_Firiel trembled uncontrollably until she heard the roar of a monster nearby. Peering around the corner of the barricade, she saw a bloated form advancing on the King. It stood twice the height of a man with a spiked club held in both hands. An apron of human heads hung at its belt. It was an Olog-Hai troll, bred for war and killing and no other purpose._

"_Rogrog," she whispered and closed her eyes._

_She rocked back and forth, full of terror, wishing for it all to end, until someone grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet._

"_The King is slain! We must retreat."_

_It was the soldier that she had seen at the tent. It was Valandil._

Firiel sighed as the vision passed. As she returned to the present, Mercatur was being difficult…again. She stood behind Valandil as tension mounted between the elf and the mercenary and it seemed as though another battle would erupt.

_Damn mercenary…always so stubborn and contrary. Why can't you just do what's right for the sake of doing it?_

Again, she sighed as Mercatur handed over the armor and Ascarnil returned to the tomb. She followed the elf out of curiosity and Haedorial emerged from the barrow, looking dazed.

Valandil approached and they sat the bard down. In his hands, he held a gray leather book.

"I…I…found this…in the tomb of Ostoher and Silwë. I don't remember anything else."

Firiel was about to open the book when Ascarnil took it and entered the barrow. He looked back and said, "This needs to end here. We have opened something that should not have been opened. As Valandil said, this age is past. These things are beyond our understanding."

Firiel followed the elf and marveled at the wonders of the tomb. As Ascarnil returned the items to their rightful places, she rushed into the chamber to see Silwë, the grief-stricken lady. Unable to take her eyes off of the dead woman, Firiel could hear Silwë call to her, drawing her near.

Firiel shuffled closer and closer until she stood over Silwë and gazed upon her delicate features, awestruck by the ancient woman, her beauty preserved over the millennia.

Ascarnil shook her. "We must go."

She shook her head and narrowed her brows and the elf pulled her away. He looked her in the eye. "We must lock this barrow and say a prayer to Varda. You must never return here."

She nodded reluctantly and they departed. Ascarnil closed the metal door and the keyhole vanished. He looked up into the darkening sky as the stars twinkled and asked for Varda's forgiveness.

A/N - Thanks Thug! Will what happened to Haedorial come back? You betcha.


	22. Political Maneuvering

Alice is still away so I am posting this for her - Evan. She wishes to thank everyone for reviewing.

**Tharbad – The Bar Aran - Winter**

**Nirnadel**

In the dim bed chambers of the Chancellor, the young princess sat with her head down. The normally luxurious room smelled musty as most of the shades were drawn closed to keep the chill wind out. Nirnadel was silent as Nimhir stormed back and forth in his green night robe with bandages still covering his chest and arms. He had only recently been on his feet since the attack that nearly cost him his life.

"What were you thinking, Your Highness? Do you know what you've done?" he said, trying to contain his anger. His normally styled black hair was mussed and the streaks of gray more pronounced since the attack and he looked older, more worn. He stopped, putting his hand on one of the plastered walls.

"We…We only sought to obey the Laws of Cardolan. We did what We thought was right," Nirnadel answered in a near whisper. Though she kept a stoic face, her lower lip quivered.

Nimhir looked out of one of the open windows onto the snow-covered streets below. He sighed heavily and warmed his hands over glowing braziers full of hot coals. "Mablung Girithlin means to have your crown and he is now in a position to take it. Should I be killed, he would assume the position of Chancellor and he could force you into a marriage for the good of the Kingdom. After all, you have no heir and by law, a male should rule. That would mean Falathar Girithlin would be king and under the control of his father."

"Falathar is not such a bad man," Nirnadel said meekly, straightening her emerald-colored dress.

Nimhir turned back, agitated, his eyes boring into the Princess. "That is not the point! The point is that Mablung will be the de facto king. I fear for you, Your Highness. Your indiscretions at the House of Healing were nothing compared to this. We must accept King Araphor's proposal and we must do it now."

The princess' pale cheeks turned bright red, but her expression remained impassive. Nimhir stood for a moment, angry and obstinate, but his love for Nirnadel cooled his blood and once again, he melted. Sighing, he came to her and knelt with a pained grunt, taking her hands in his. "Your Highness, I apologize for my harshness. My only concern is for you. Mablung's only care is for his own power. He would use you like a handkerchief and discard you when your use to him was done. If we accept Araphor's proposal, the northern kingdoms would reunite. Araphor is young, but he is a good man."

"But what of the sovereignty of Cardolan? We have existed as an independent kingdom for more than four hundred years."

Nimhir patted her delicate hand gently. "We would endure and grow stronger. The glory of the old Kingdom of Arnor would shine again."

Nirnadel nodded slowly, pondering the future. She brushed her ebony locks from her face. "Very well. Kind Nimhir, please send a messenger to Fornost Erain to inform the good king that We accept his proposal."

In the corner, old Anariel smiled while Kaile approached and put a jade-hued cloak over the Princess' shoulders and secured it with a mithril pin in the shape of a tree. Nirnadel stood and all bowed to her as she turned to go. Kaile followed her out, but Nimhir held the old nursemaid back.

Stroking his graying goatee, he whispered, "She is still young and still a princess. We must do all we can to see that she becomes a queen."

Anarial bowed submissively. "Yes, Your Grace," she said and then scurried off as fast as she could.

Nirnadel strode down the hall and down into the garden, which was covered in a thick blanket of snow. Young pine trees poked up through the frosty covering, lining the swept pathways. The Princess stepped along the path, her feet crunching on the soft flakes and she felt the cold breeze on her face. Her cheeks quickly became rosy red and her ebony hair and cloak fluttered behind her.

"Good Kaile, this path leads to our favorite part of the garden, the reflecting pond and fountain. It is frozen now, but come spring, it will burst into life once more."

As Anariel shuffled to catch up, Nirnadel and Kaile strode along the wintry walkway to a small bridge that spanned the icy pond. "Look below the ice and you can see the fish, golden and orange," the Princess continued, her expression bittersweet. "How We loved to feed them with our royal father. We would also play here at being knights with our brothers. Good Kaile, We were never meant to rule. Why has this fate been thrust upon us? Is this Illuvatar's vision for our people? A year ago, We played in the garden and studied the classics of literature and danced at balls. We would have married a prince or a baron to seal a meaningless alliance."

Nirnadel's gray eyes narrowed and a darkness swept over her face. She pointed northward and the emerald ring on her finger sparkled in the diffuse sunlight. "But the Lord of Angmar changed all of that. What must We do? Give me your council." She looked utterly lost.

Kaile bit her lip softly as her brown hair ruffled in the chill breeze. She seemed out of place in her silk dress of forest green rather than her roughspun brown robes. "Your Highness, you're frightening me. I have always seen your confidence. I don't know…I am just a healer."

Anariel moved between Kaile and the Princess, giving the healer a sour look. "Your Highness, we must trust in the Chancellor. We must put our faith in Nimhir. He will guide us through this."

Nirnadel adjusted the mithril collar around her neck. "If We wed King Araphor, then what of Cardolan? What of the realm that has stood alone and unafraid for more than five hundred years? We would become a province of Arthedain, lost in the politics of that land. Would we stand with the seven great families of Arthedain…the Tarma, the Eketta, the Orros, the Hyam, and the rest or would we be subservient to their power? What of our own proud lords?"

Kaile moved around the old servant. "Your Highness, I see good in King Araphor. He will care for your people and I know you will see to that."

A faint smile broke over Nirnadel's ruby lips. "Indeed We shall."

**Mablung Girithlin**

Within the fortress of Barad Girithlin, the barrel-chested, pot-bellied hir swung his ermine cape as he strode confidently through the hall of his keep. He was clad in a rich, maroon doublet with a mithril chain about his neck that hung down to a glittering green and gold medallion in the shape of a lion. His hunting boots were made of the finest doe skin with a thick fur lining and he wore a soft, fur cap that complimented his red face.

Following behind the massive lord was his personal guard and his son, Falathar, dressed in a doublet of brooding crimson with a fur cap to match.

They ascended an iron staircase until they reached Mablung's office, high in the tower. Two guards came to attention as they approached and opened the grand wooden door, revealing a luxuriously decorated chamber with a raging fire in a red brick hearth. Mablung walked past the guards, undid the clasp of his cloak and tossed the heavy item over a chair made of dark woods and fabrics.

"It's a shame Nimhir recovered," the heavy set lord complained. "I shall have to bide my time."

A look of concern grew on Falathar's face. "Father, surely you didn't…."

Mablung's hand came up quickly and his penetrating stare silenced his son. "How dare you even think that I had anything to do with that. I might scheme and manipulate like all good lords do, but stoop to assassination? Never. I sense Angmar's hand in that. However, I would certainly stand ready to exploit any opportunity that could occur from Nimhir's demise."

Falathar bowed meekly, chastised by his father. "I meant no disrespect, father. It just seemed -"

Again, Mablung put his hand out and turned to the fire, ignoring his son. He took a blood red apple from a basket atop the Mallorn-wood desk and took a bite, the flesh of the fruit snapping off crisply. As he chewed, he warmed one of his large hands near the flames, thinking.

"I have it…I must contact our agents in Tharbad. I must make it appear as though Arthedain had a hand in the attack on Nimhir. That would profit us most. Son, your wedding is not far off."

"But father…."

Mablung continued to ignore him, caught up in his own thoughts. "That would end the courtship of young Araphor to our beloved princess and put us at the forefront. Then, all we would have to do is deal with the Tinarës." He took another bite of the apple and turned back to Falathar. "Go son, summon a rider to take a letter to our man. Also, have the King's Road watched. I don't want messengers from Nimhir scurrying about before we've had time to hatch this."

Young Falathar pursed his lips for a moment as if thinking until his father waved him off dismissively. Mablung looked away as his son departed, not seeing the frown on Falathar's lips.

**Er-Mûrazôr, the Black Prince, also known as Tindomul, the Twilight Son, the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl**

The most powerful of the Ringwraiths stood on the dais of the Council Chamber in the highest level of Carn Dûm, the fortress-city of Angmar. Next to him was his iron throne, forged to resemble the massive bones of a dragon.

He turned his translucent face down to a gold ithilnaur ring around his translucent finger and read the Tengwar script that adorned the band. He both loved and hated the ring, a gift from his master eons ago. It was the source of his power, his mastery, his immortality, but also his endless torment.

Above where his head should be was a helm of sea-drake skin that rose to a spiny crown-shaped crest. The ancient helm was of the design of the captains of Númenor, but this helm held greater power.

Before the dais, knelt his servants – the Númenorean sorcerer, known as the Angûlion; the pretty elf, Ulgarin; and the dog-man, Ulduin. The Angûlion, in his black robes with black pectorals of volcanic glass known as eog, rose and stepped forward, laying several tomes at the feet of his lord. He then stepped back to reclaim his staff.

The Witch King passed his hand over the books and one rose to his grasp. The tome's cover opened of its own accord and the Nazgûl's ghostly eyes scanned the text. He emitted a chuckle that sounded like the dying gasps of a drowning man. He then spoke, his voice a dagger of ice. "…A historical accounting of the age of Númenor. It speaks of my father, Tar-Ciryatan, the Ship Builder. He sent great fleets to Middle-Earth to extract tribute from the lesser men and expanded the might of Númenor. You remember those times, Angûlion, don't you?"

The mighty sorcerer and right hand of the Witch King had lived uncounted ages through dark magic and he nodded with a smile for his lord.

The Nazgûl brought his hand to his lips, the ring of power shimmering with his movement. Pages of the tome flipped over and the Black Prince continued, "My brother, Atanamir, was heir to throne of Númenor and I was but an unloved second son, born during a solar eclipse, a sign of ill luck." He walked away from the book, letting it float in mid air.

"I assembled a fleet and took it to Umbar, where I proclaimed myself king. This angered my father and he ordered to return to Armenelos, the seat of power in Númenor. I refused, and there, I took control of my own fate. Through the agents of the Master, I entered Barad-Dûr in Mordor and became his greatest pupil. My powers expanded at a prodigious rate and I was rewarded with this ring. I could then watch my brother grow old and senile, afraid to surrender the Sceptre of Armenelos until his death."

The Witch King turned back to his servants. "You have done well. Take the spell texts to the mages and alchemists when we are finished. I also commend you on further destabilizing Cardolan with the attack on the Chancellor."

The Angûlion looked perplexed and glanced at Ulduin and Ulgarin. "My lord, we had nothing to do with that, but it does suit our purpose."

The Lord of Angmar cocked his head for a moment. "Then was it that fool, Girithlin?"

"Our spies have made no mention of his involvement in such an act."

Er-Mûrazôr stroked his ghostly chin. To a ring bearer, he looked to be at the peak of his manhood, tall, strong, noble, with thick raven hair. But to his servants and his foes, he appeared to be a phantom, ancient beyond years, wizened with stringy gray hair and sunken eyes and cheeks. He narrowed his eyes.

"Then, we have a new player in this game."


	23. Mithril

As promised, I'm making my way back to LOTR. We visit the rustic village of Bree and the gang finds a clue to an adventure.

**The Lost Kingdom of Cardolan – Book II**

**Winter**

**Haedorial the Bard**

_Gil-Galad was an Elven-King,  
Of him the harpers sadly sing;  
The last whose Realm was fair and free  
Between the mountains and the sea. _

_His lance was long, his sword was keen,  
His shining helm was far aseen;  
The countless stars of heaven's field  
Were mirrored in his silver shield. _

_But long ago he went away,  
And where he dwelleth none can say;  
For into darkness fell his star,  
In Mordor, where the shadows are._

Haedorial's liquid voice hung on the last note as his golden harp became silent. The crowd in the King's Rest Inn sat hushed, enthralled by the bard's talents. To heighten the effect on his audience, Haedorial dressed in his finest Númenorean-style robes of jade and silver with a silver chain over his neck that was studded with garnets and tourmalines. His fur hat was also trimmed with silver and bore a circular stone of lapis lazuli with a silver tree inlaid on the gem.

The bard bowed low with a flourish, sweeping his thick velvet cape, and the crowd of merchants and farmers clapped and howled with delight. Though most of the people gathered in the inn were simple folk from the small town of Bree, they had the blood of the North in them and they loved a good song despite its high brow origins.

Haedorial smiled and set his prized harp aside. Sir Valandil sat with Mercatur at a table with a trencher of roast beef and hard cheese between them while Firiel sat with her elven mother at another table. A huge central fireplace roared with licking flames, casting shadows about the dark room.

Two stout, brown-haired men approached the bard and handed him a large mug of famous Bree ale. "Well sung!" shouted one who was dressed in a simple, but well-tended tunic of cream and brown. "I'm Westin Heathertoes and this is my brother Erling."

Westin had a plain, broad face with warm, blue eyes. His hair was receding to a form a crown around his shiny pate. Around his neck he wore a thick, golden chain that hung down to a medallion with the image of the late King Arveleg that was the symbol of the Mayor of Bree.

Haedorial was more comfortable with the sweeter wines of the King's table, but a mug of ale would suit him fine. He took the heavy stein that was frothing bubbles and downed a swig of the heady brew.

Erling gave a cheer and clapped the bard on the back. "I always love the tales of the old elves and such. We don't see much power and glory in these backwater parts and few if any elves pass through Bree Town." Erling had a broad smile of brown teeth stained by chewing tobacco and a love of dark wine from Dale. He nudged his head toward Firiel and her mother. "Two elves in one day…that's a record. 'Ave you got anymore of those songs?"

"Of the elven songs of old, Gil-Galad is one of my favorites," replied the bard in his most elegant, bardic tone. "It is a sad tale, but one of great inspiration. If we stay another day, I shall sing the Lay of Luthien…in its entirety."

"I can't says as I'm familiar with that one," said Westin as he took another stein from a comely serving wench. He took a long drink and escorted Haedorial to one of the shuttered windows of the inn that looked out onto the snow-covered town. "We certainly could've used a bit o inspiration last year. Orcs and wolves come over the wall, they did…those as weren't wiping out the King's men on the Downs." He pointed a stubby finger back at a chubby hobbit and a black-haired man in the white surcoat of Arthedain with seven golden stars. "The Halfling, Sandheaver ain't much to look at and is more of a farmer, but he knows how to shoot a bow and throw a rock, he does. And good Sir Maldir, Captain of the Town Guard, no finer swordsman is there."

The red-faced hobbit raised a stein, kicking his hairy feet back and forth under a table while dour Maldir merely nodded.

Erling nodded his agreement. "Aye, the buggers burned Combe and Archet towns nearby and meant to turn Bree to ashes too. Jolly Jolo Sandheaver brought his hobbit kin inside the wall while Sir Maldir rallied the guard. The knight hails from old House Eldanar, the dispossessed. That bugger Witch King took his family's castle and turned it into a place of evil."

Westin raised an eyebrow. "Erling, stick to the battle. Castle Eldanar is a whole other story."

"Oh, I know that story well," interjected Haedorial. "Pray, continue."

"Pardons, as the smoke and flames from Archet and Combe come climbing high into the gray sky, a horde o orcs come storming the wall, flying their nasty arrows. The farmers on the wall broke in panic, running to save their kin as the beasties climbed over the stone. Then suddenly, jolly little Sandheaver come flying his arrows back, knocking many o the louts down into the mud. Amid the snarling and baring of orc fangs, good Sir Maldir come and rallies the farmers…and him and his guard put the rest to the spear and sword. 'Onward, men of Arthedain' he cried, his sword glittering in the dim sun. It was a sight I'll never forget."

Haedorial was impressed. "You tell the tale as well as any bard." He took another frothy drink from his stein and his head began to spin. He blinked hard and set the ale down as his legs wobbled.

"Whoa there, don't drink Bree ale too fast," warned Westin. "Here, have a seat now."

The bard removed his fur cap and fanned himself with his hand. "That is very strong." His world continued to twirl and his vision blurred. A flash shot across his eyes and he gasped.

_Snarling orcs came in waves under the cover of darkness, scrambling up the onto the Barrow Downs of Tyrn Gorthad. A cry rang out and sentries with the livery of the noble houses of Cardolan scrambled for weapons as black feathered arrows flew. A man-at-arms hurriedly donned a pot helmet and hewed down two orcs before he was tackled by a wave of horrid creatures. He was held down and an axe split his head in two. _

_A volley of arrows fell among the orcs and shafts pierced deep into their horde. Men in green with hastily donned armor tried to form a line and drew back their bows once again. Orcs fell in waves as another volley flew. From the side, a tall man led a counterattack with a gaggle of soldiers, his blond hair waving in the chill wind. He wielded a long sword and assaulted the orc horde from a flank. With precision, born of professional training, he cut and thrust at the mass of orcs, driving them back. Spearmen stood around him, stabbing at the enemy behind a ragged shield wall._

_As the men of Cardolan advanced, a dark shape emerged, growing greater with each step. It was inhumanly bloated and monstrous in size. In its ham-sized fist it held a spiked club that was covered in blood and gore._

_Before the spearmen could respond, the troll batted the line of spears away and swung his club down on the shields, crushing them like paper. The tall man clove a trio of orcs and then made his way to the beast. "My father needs more time. We have to hold them!"_

_He stood upon a rock and slashed down at the growing mass of orcs, parrying attacks and slicing off heads and limbs. A pile of bodies mounted around him, growing ever higher. He turned to see the troll crashing through the line of spears and stepped to intervene. _

_An arrow pierced his chest. Thick and stout, the shaft sank deep. If only he had the time to don his armor. Now, it was too late. _

_In horror, his personal guard pressed forward recklessly, but the man sank to his knees upon the rock and clawed at the black shaft. He could feel the barbed tip in his chest – it could not be pulled out._

"_Guard the prince. Prince Braegil is wounded!" he heard his men cry, but a chill gripped his heart and the sound was distant._

_Men and orcs battled around him as he lay upon the rock, tired, no longer caring. He felt helpful hands on his person and then the sensation of being dragged. He blinked, looking up into the cloudy sky._

"_Who will find the Mithril Room? Who will complete my quest?" he whispered._

"_Do not worry about that, my prince. We must escape. The troll, Rogrog, has broken our lines."_

"_No, Tar-Telemmaite…the King of Numenor…Mithril Room. Treasure beyond imagining. Rebuild the Kingdom…."_

_His eyes shut and the sounds of battle faded._

"Haedorial…are you alright?" It was Firiel's voice.

The bard blinked heavily and took a glass of water that was offered. "We must find the Mithril Room. Prince Braegil was close. I think I might have found it."


	24. The Ruins of Vinyalonde

I'm on a LOTR roll. I'm off to California for a week. I also expect to hear back on a school I put in for which will keep me out for six months. Candace will take over if that happens.

**The Mouth of the Gwathló River**

**Spring**

**Valandil**

A light drizzle under gray skies dampened the camp near the wide mouth of the mighty Gwathló River. Tents and rough shelters sat upon the wet grass and soft earth near the shore. A score of men with tools dug a swampy pit as the knight, Valandil stood in the rain, letting the drops roll down his face. Moisture beaded on the chainmail that peeked out from under his surcoat.

The mercenary, Mercatur, thrummed his fingers on an oak table under the tent while pulling on his beard with his other hand. "How long have we been in this wet, miserable place?"

Valandil chuckled, but did not look back into the tent. "Only a week. Give it some time."

The mercenary grunted and continued thrumming his fingers. "Bard, what are we suppose to find here again?"

In his gaily-colored tunic and breeches, Haedorial stood in the tent, looking at a map hanging on the wall. "If you could be patient for just a little while, we shall find the Mithril horde of Tar-Telemmaitë, the King of Númenor nearly three thousand years ago. We are near the ruins of Vinyalondë, also known as Lond Daer Enedh," he said with authority.

"Vinya…what?" asked Mercatur, perked up by the reminder that Mithril could be near.

The bard looked back with a smile, now that he had gotten Mercatur's attention. "In the Year Seven Seventy Seven of the Second Age, the Crown Prince of Númenor, Anardil Aldarion began the construction of a great harbor to house the mighty ships of the realm. He wanted an impregnable base nigh to the Elf-lands to expand into Middle Earth. The great mariner erected a lighthouse on a small rocky islet near the outer mudbank and on the western promontory that formed the bay. An earthen rampart sealed off the eastern promontory as well. From there, the Númenoreans constructed docks and raised the castle of Bar-en-Uinendil, the House of the Venturers' Guild."

Valandil entered the tent to better hear the story and Haedorial's smile broadened at the prospect of more attention.

"Provisions would be Aldarion's greatest concern this far from Númenor," the bard continued. "As such, he made the Bar-en-Uinendil one of the largest fortresses ever built by men. There was a great, sloping basalt wall on the seaward side to resist storms and an elaborate drainage system was provided so that the twin towers on the landward side would not be overwhelmed by the sea. Soon, a populace moved in and settlements grew near the defenses."

Valandil moved over and took a look at the map. "What happened to Vinyalondë?"

"Ah, I thought you'd never ask. Aldarion was a mighty king and expanded the influence of Númenor far and wide. Sadly, he and his daughter Ancalimë were constantly at odds. She became the first ruling Queen of Númenor when the great mariner retired. Three hundred years after construction began, a hurricane obliterated all of Vinyalondë, except the Bar-en-Uinendil. Ancalimë abandoned the fortress and the proud towers were worn down."

"So where does the Mithril Room come in? Didn't Tar-Telemmaitë come after Aldarion?"

Haedorial nodded. "Very astute, my good knight, very astute. Well, six-hundred years later, another Crown Prince, Minastir, decided to build Lond Daer anew. The coastline had been altered by the seas, but Minastir wanted to build around Aldarion's old house. It took fifty-six years, but the city proved pivotal in the wars that crushed Sauron. Minastir constructed an artificial harbor and raised massive walls. Along with this came the fortress of Minas Mellon that sat on a huge pyramid. Minastir's finest feat of engineering came in the form of the Floating Avenue to resist the power of the storms. Once again, in Twenty-Five-Eleven of the Second Age, the Wrath of Ossë, a hurricane beyond imagining, wiped out the city. The Kings of Númenor made some repairs, but they were beginning to fall into evil. The site was finally abandoned during the reign of Tar-Palantir, who hoped to restore Númenor to the old ways. Finally, when Ar-Pharazôn the Golden incurred the wrath of the Valar, the site was drowned in the tidal waves that came from the Downfall of Númenor. Water and earthquakes ruined the coastline and sunk the site beneath the waves."

"That's pretty impressive. How do we hope to find this?"

Once again, the bard smiled and produced another map. "Over time, the coastline has changed again and what was once sunken has resurfaced."

Valandil looked at the map and then walked back to the tent opening. "It still looks pretty wet to me." He looked out onto the river where flat boats were pulling up onto the shore – more supplies had come in. The knight strode across the muddy ground toward the rivermen where Firiel was tying off their lines.

A burly man, with the look of the sea, stepped off of the boat as his men began unloading crates and barrels. "We've some goods, courtesy of Westin Heathertoes," he said.

"Westin?" asked Valandil. "Well, this is welcome news." The knight extended his hand. "Sir Valandil of Cardolan."

"Aelfred, Captain of the Bargemen's Guild. The rain's swollen the river like a pregnant sow, which made our going a lot easier," the man said as he wiped moisture from his blond hair and mustache. He turned back and motioned to his men. "Come on, look alive. I want to shove off quickly. We've got a lot of cargo to move."

Valandil pitched in and began rolling a barrel down the walkway as Aelfred strode along. Men carried crates and rolled their own barrels as the drizzle continued. The blond guildsman looked off at the excavation site. "What's the deal with all of this work? Not since Prince Braegil has there been anyone out here."

"Well, as a matter of fact, we're picking up where he left off. Our bard, Haedorial, thinks he has the solution."

Aelfred looked skeptical and his lips curled up. "Well friend, I wish you luck. The river and sea are harsh mistresses to be sure. What might be a little bad weather elsewhere can be sure death here. Oh, by the way, your expedition seems to have some favor. It seems that the Princess of Cardolan is sending more supplies your way. I heard Brethil the Old and Findegil Finwarin set sail a week ago."

"I thought Brethil was too old to put to sea anymore and Findegil…he has a good heart, but not much sense."

Aelfred laughed deeply. "Indeed. As I said, I wish you luck."

Up ahead, there seemed to be a commotion at the excavation site. Valandil set aside the barrel and trotted up to take a look. "What do you have? What is it?"

Haedorial stood over the muddy hole where the men stepped back from something. "My good knight, what we have here is the outer wall of Lond Daer. My friends, I think we're onto something."

**The Ruins of Vinyalondë**

**Firiel**

_Two weeks have passed and we're still digging in this muddy pit. I don't know how much longer I can remain here. Jonu is still too young to manage the House by himself. With Kaile and the princess away from Tharbad…I just don't know._

The young healer sat atop a low sand dune in the constant drizzle. Off to the northeast, diggers continued to shovel sand and mud out of the hole near the wall. Firiel vacantly looked at the rusted iron wall fittings that were piled on the dune from a fruitless search a few days ago.

_We founds some old torch holders and door handles, but it's not much. Haedorial seems to think that everything will be found near the outer wall, but it's been millennia since this place was in its glory._

Just to the northwest, another long, stone wall protruded from the sand and water. Battered granite and rusted steel could be seen rising a yard above the ground. Another sand and mud dune, just north, appeared to be square and man made.

She heard footsteps in the sand, drawing closer – it was Valandil. He pointed to the square dune. "Haedorial thinks that the dune was the foundation of the old bailey. I'm really glad that he's here. He seems to have the corner on arcane knowledge around here."

"He does indeed," Firiel answered curtly. _Are you glad that I'm here too?_ She shifted her body to look out at the dune, which was flanked by ruined walls and a line of small, sandy islets heading straight out into the water. "He says that those islets are the remains of the Floating Avenue, a wonder of Númenorean engineering."

Valandil took her arm gently and tugged her toward the square dune. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

Her mood lightened and she gave him a shy smile. They trudged down from their position past the rusted fixtures, letting their feet crunch on the moist sand. Firiel felt Valandil's fingers tracing along her slightly pointed ears. She felt a tingling in her body.

"The gift of being half-elven," he said and she turned to look at him.

"Valandil, what do you want to happen? Is there a future for us?"

He looked at her curiously, his brows furrowed. "Wh…why of course. Oh…I'm sorry. Now that I'm a knight and a man of Cardolan, I've dishonored you. We should make our bond permanent."

Firiel looked away. _That's not exactly what I was looking for._ With a sigh, she spoke, "No, it's not that. I do want a future with you, but not because of honor. Do you…do you l-"

They had now reached the wall north of the square dune and Firiel saw a small whirlpool draining into a hole at the base of the wall. An old, weather beaten engraving was carved into the stone of the wall: Minas Mellon.

"Valandil! Look at this. I think we've found something."

The knight watched the sea water swirl into the hole. "This must be the access way into the tower basement." He waved frantically back at the men at the excavation site and soon, Haedorial and the crew came rushing over.

Breathless, the bard bent over, hands on his knees. "What do you have…my good knight?"

Valandil and Firiel smiled together. "I think we have a way in," they said in unison.

**In the Ruins of Minas Mellon**

**Mercatur**

"I was really beginning to enjoy sitting on my ass and drinking ale," said the mercenary as he wiped brew from his beard. He looked at the excavation around the entrance to the basement of Minas Mellon, which had been dammed off to prevent the sea from flooding the hole.

"Well, I'll bet you're curious about what we might find inside," answered Valandil. He held out a lantern to see into the hole, which had drained sufficiently for people to enter.

"Númenorean loot? Okay, I'm game," Mercatur said as he took the lantern and walked down the worn stairway. The light shone into a tunnel that quickly shrunk down to almost nothing. "Crap, we're going to have to crawl for a bit. There better not be any rats!"

Valandil chuckled and started down the stairs, followed by Haedorial and Firiel. Four diggers rounded out the crew, carrying lamps and shovels. Mercatur crawled through the watery sand for about five feet until the tunnel expanded once again. He stood and looked at a split in the tunnel as Valandil emerged, soaking wet. The mercenary examined the two tunnels. "The right one is more recent. I'll bet this was one of Braegil's digs. I'd say the left one is our way."

The knight nodded in the gloom and Mercatur continued on while the rest of the party came through the crawlspace. Soon, the tunnel expanded into a large cave with a pile of rocks in the center.

As the party came up behind him, Mercatur entered and shined the light on a strange sight. Facing the rocks were five lines of small, stone statues, roughly carved. Haedorial burst into the cave and stared at the totems. "How odd. These carvings are rather chubby and crudely done…certainly not Númenorean in origin. This almost looks…pagan."

"You don't know what these are?" asked Firiel.

"Not a clue, good healer."

Mercatur snorted. "Well, there's a first." He kicked one over and it fell into the sand. "Whatever it is, it's harmless. Let's keep moving."

Valandil shrugged and brought his torch near to get a better look at the figurines. The largest one was horribly bloated and clearly monstrous. Slowly, he drew his sword and looked around. He drew Firiel close to him and then pressed on behind Mercatur. "Stay close," he whispered.

As they filed out of the cave toward a stairway that led further down, two bright eyes appeared in the darkness behind them and the fallen figurine righted itself.

**In the Ruins of Minas Mellon**

**Haedorial**

The bard's heart beat incessantly in his chest as they descended lower into the ground. The stairway was partially clogged, but the workers quickly cleared it. "I don't think Braegil made it this far," he said, his voice reverberating in the watery tunnel. Here, the tunnel was finely finished and still gleamed in the lamplight. "Most certainly of Dúnadan construction. Look at the polish," he added.

The corridor was long, heading east, with several adjoining corridors. They initially took another long one, heading south, which ended in a pentagonal room. Again, the walls were finely polished despite the millennia that had passed. Mercatur held up the lantern, which revealed an alcove.

"That is where the shrine to the Valar would have sat in days of yore," announced Haedorial. "We are in a holy site."

"Yah, whatever," said Mercatur with a grunt. Without another word, he turned and walked back up the corridor. Haedorial genuflected toward the alcove and fell back in with the group.

They pressed on passed a few more rooms until they came to a tiny chamber. Haedorial looked closely at the ground. "Look, my friends, more of these figurines. I'm beginning to think that they have some religious significance."

"Do you think that they're recent?" asked Firiel.

"Hmmm, I believe that they are, but it's hard to tell if they've been here a week, a month, or a year."

A commotion outside of the room caught his attention. "What was that?" voices called out.

Haedorial rushed back into the tunnel, where Mercatur stood, axe in hand. Three of the workers huddled together.

"Where's Bova?" asked Valandil.

The workers cowered and pointed down the corridor. "It took him! It took him!"

Haedorial pushed his way past the warriors to the workers. "What took him? What did you see?"

"The demon."


	25. The Nurga

ok, Candace and I are done. This is now a joint Candy/Raven production. This adventure brought to you based on our playing of the ICE Middle Earth RPG.

**Beneath Minas Mellon**

**Spring**

**Valandil**

"All right, everyone, stay calm," the knight declared beneath the flicker of his torch. Haedorial and the workers continued to mutter and fret until Mercatur stepped in.

"Shut the hell up!" he bellowed, letting the fires reflect off of the blade of his axe. Valandil looked at him and a smile escaped from his lips.

_He definitely has his uses._

The workers were silenced by Mercatur's now echoing voice and the mercenary pointed back down the tunnel. "You people stay here. Valandil and I will go look for Bova."

The knight nodded and reached out for Firiel. "If anything happens, take everyone and get back to the surface. If something gets by us…well, just get out. I won't let anything happen to you while I can still swing a sword."

Firiel took his hand for a moment but could not speak. Valandil released her reluctantly and headed off behind Mercatur. Within fifty feet they came across Bova's head. The mercenary shone the beam of the lantern on the bloody object and the worker's face was frozen in horror and agony.

"What do you think?" asked the knight.

"Well, I think he's dead."

"I can see that…. What do you think got him?"

Mercatur shrugged. "I dunno. I'm just a dumb mercenary. Demons, they said, huh?" He hesitated for a moment as if remembering something and then a look of concern came over his face as his brows furrowed. "We best get back. We have to press on…now."

Valandil fell in beside him as he strode quickly back to the group. "Hey, I know a bit about your last venture in Rhudaur. I know you fought against something demonic and it shook you up pretty bad."

Mercatur stopped on a dime and turned sharply. "You don't know anything about that. It was…nevermind. Let's just move on, shall we?"

Just then, an inhuman shriek echoed down the tunnel toward them and the air became chill. Valandil swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "Yes, let's keep going."

They hustled the group to the end of the corridor where another stairway led down. At the base of the stairs, Mercatur swung the lantern about. The mercenary was clearly nervous. "Hey, I see some arrow slits. There must be an old guard room behind these walls."

Valandil stood guard at the rear of the group with Firiel right behind him, short bow held ready. "Check it out," said the knight, "and be careful."

"Yah, yah." Mercatur inched up to the wall, axe drawn while Haedorial opened a tome under his torch light. The mercenary took a quick peek into one of the arrow slits. He cried out in surprise and fell back with a splash into a puddle of water.

Valandil turned. "Are you alright? Talk to me!"

"Angmar's bones! There's something in there. Red eyes!" Mercatur shouted and quickly got to his feet. There was the sound of something scurrying beyond the arrow slits and then all was quiet.

The mercenary grunted and shook water from his trousers. He picked up the lantern and moved ahead. Rubble from the ceiling clogged the tunnel, making it difficult to proceed. Valandil watched as Mercatur picked his way through the stones, followed by Haedorial and the frightened workers.

The lantern cast an eerie glow over the walls and various openings on the left side of the tunnel. "I think those are guardrooms," said Haedorial quietly. The tunnel grew gradually narrower as more and more rubble choked the area and Mercatur had to hug the left wall. Valandil could see the mercenary's breath come in vents of steam.

"It's getting colder," he told Firiel.

Just then, something reached out of one of the openings and seized a worker in a red shirt. "Wicks!" they yelled as the man vanished amid screams. Valandil rushed up and shoved his torch into the opening, letting his hearing guide him to the screams. The flame danced on the walls of the narrow tunnel and he could hear the sound of Wicks being dragged away.

"Hang on," he shouted and moved into a wider room, sword held with point forward. What he saw froze his heart. "Dear Varda…."

**Mercatur**

The big mercenary turned back to see the man in the red shirt vanish. On instinct, he rushed back past Haedorial just as Valandil ran down the side tunnel. He looked at Firiel. "Wait here!"

_Not again…not another damn demon. I'm not going out like House Rhudainor. I'm not._

He took two steps into the tunnel when he saw Valandil come running back. "Get the hell out of here! It's a demon!"

Shrieks and cries echoed down the tunnel as the knight pushed Mercatur back into the main corridor. "I took a couple of swings at it, but my sword had no effect!"

Mercatur was about to speak when something large and hairy barreled into them. It had a rank, fetid smell and red eyes burned in the darkness. He landed on the wet floor with a grunt, dropping the lantern and all went black except for a couple of smoldering torches. The thing was on his chest and he instinctively drew his dagger and plunged it into the beast.

With a horrid shriek, it slithered back and Mercatur saw long fangs flash. With the flat of his axe, he batted the snout away. Valandil thrust his sword into the flank of the thing, but it knocked the knight back. One of Firiel's arrows sank into its mutated face.

It lunged at Mercatur, but he slashed it along a cheek and it howled, snarling. Then, it rose to its full height, two heads taller than the mercenary and it emitted an unearthly wail.

"Screw this!" yelled Mercatur. "Press on! I'll hold him!"

_If I gotta go, let me go like a warrior._

Firiel hustled the group ahead, but Valandil returned. He lunged ahead of Mercatur and stabbed into the beast's leg. It jumped back from the sting, but then got down on all fours again and began to observe them, looking for a weakness. The mercenary quickly grabbed the lantern and together, they backed slowly away.

Soon, the creature faded from the light and Mercatur shuddered.

"You did good back there," said Valandil.

"We're not out of this yet. That…_thing_ is sizing us up."

They retreated down the every narrower tunnel until Firiel could be seen. "Thank Varda, you're alive," she said breathlessly. She held up a rope. "Haedorial and the workers went up ahead, but they had to swim. The tunnel is flooded. We've hauled most of the gear through."

"Great, just great," muttered the mercenary. "How far?"

"Maybe thirty feet. Give or take…."

Valandil nodded. "Very well. Firiel, you go."

She shrugged and stripped off her tunic and breeches, revealing a form-fitting shift underneath. Mercatur raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's worth living for."

She smirked and then touched Valandil briefly before diving in. The knight then grabbed Mercatur. "You're next."

The mercenary shook his head. "Not a rat's chance in Rivendell. I'll be the last one out." His eyes told the knight that this was not open for negotiation. Valandil nodded once and then grabbed the rope.

"You stay right behind me."

"Yah, yah, just go."

**Valandil**

Valandil took a deep breath and dove in, hauling himself along the rope in the pitch darkness. The weight of his armor and weapons drew him down and the line became taut. His feet touched the bottom which was covered in silt and one of his boots snagged on an object. With one hand, he grabbed what felt like a dagger and stuffed it in his pocket. Just as the air in his lungs was about to give out, he was yanked to the surface.

Immediately, he began to cough.

"Don't breathe too deeply," Firiel said in a wheezy voice with her hand over her mouth. "The air is rank." A torch sputtered in her hand, a sign that the air was indeed fetid.

He nodded, wiping the water from his eyes. "I'll wait for Mercatur. You go join the others."

She shook her head and started to answer, but the water began to roil up. Great bubbles spouted from the hole and Valandil drew his sword. Something erupted from the water and Firiel screamed.

"Whaddya screaming for? It's me!" groused the mercenary. "Somebody get me outta here."

Valandil pulled him up and he stared at the knight. "What? You said stay right behind you. You think I _wanted_ to sit and talk with rat demon back there? I'm brave, not stupid."

Valandil chuckled and slapped Mercatur on the back. He cut the rope and then they crawled the rest of the way into a grand chamber. There, Haedorial was looking at a stack of tiles in his hand.

"Thank Varda you are safe, my friends," he said. "Look what I have here."

As Valandil and Mercatur piled rocks behind them, Firiel went up and looked at the mirrored tiles. "What are those?" she asked.

"Well, good lady, I found them in yonder trysting chamber," the bard said, pointing back to an open door. "I suspect that this is the quarters of a Númenorean lord. These tiles are quite valuable."

Firiel pinched up her face. "A trysting chamber?"

"A place where the lord could bed his mistresses," Mercatur called out with a snicker. He grabbed one of the mirrored tiles and held it up above Firiel's head. She looked up into the mirror and made an 'O' with her mouth.

Haedorial blushed. "A very uncouth way of putting it, but yes…he liked to watch himself, I suppose."

"Well," Valandil said to the group, "These rocks aren't going to stop that thing forever. We need to keep going."

"I was just getting to that, good knight. If you look here on this wall, there is an engraving…very recent by the look of it."

Everyone crowded around the wall as Haedorial continued, "I was mistaken earlier. Look here, this is Prince Braegil's sigil. He came this way. According to him, there is a secret panel on this wall that leads to the Tiras Formen, or North Fort of Lond Daer…and beyond that is Aldarion's House."

"And the Mithril Room," added Mercatur.


	26. Once bitten, twice shy

Thanks for your support all. I'm devoted to short, episodic chapters. It's easier for me to write that way. Mercatur tries his hand at being a connaisseur.

**Beneath Minas Mellon**

**Spring**

**Haedorial**

Standing in a large chamber, full of rotten wooden racks, Haedorial looked around. "Now that we have a bit of time to sit and think, I think it was a bad idea to not bring along any of our men-at-arms," said the bard as he sipped from a bottle that had been on the wine rack in the basement of Tiras Formen.

"Well, we made a mistake," retorted Valandil with a sigh. "I didn't think that anything could be living down here."

Haedorial nodded slowly. "We're safe for the moment, except for our two poor workmen," he said, looking at the remaining two men in red shirts. "Look here, now, I've found the most delightful cognac. It must be over three thousand years old."

Mercatur accepted the bottle and took a frothy swig. "I dunno, ale from the Starry Crown is just as good," he said with a shrug.

"Oh, of course it is to you. What would you know about Númenorean cognac?"

"About as much as you know about fighting demons."

"Point taken…. However, my good mercenary, I do have a tome that I brought with us and I have been thinking upon the visions that I have had since our visit to the Barrow Downs. I didn't have time to read the tome prior to our descent, but it has notes written in the hand of Prince Braegil that talk about a beast in the water. It seemed that he had enough soldiers to frighten it away. As a learned scholar, the prince speculates that the totems are indeed religious in nature and belong to a people called the Beffraen."

"Beffraen?" asked Firiel.

The bard nodded to her with a smile. "Ah yes, the Beffraen…. Legend has it that they are the original inhabitants of Cardolan and are related to the Woses. It is said that they have the gift of night sight. Apparently, they are rather primitive and were nearly annihilated by the Númenoreans in the Second Age."

"Well, they probably won't take too kindly to any Dúnedain then," said Valandil, looking at Firiel and then back at Haedorial.

"I guess I'm fine here then," joked the mercenary, hinting at his mixed blood.

Valandil made a wry smile. "Regardless, we should continue on to Aldarion's House. Hopefully, we can get to the surface there and call for help."

The two workers had discovered a series of large drainage pipes that led away from the wine cellar. Haedorial carefully rolled the bottle of cognac into a blanket as he followed Valandil to the pipes. "It smells like more seawater in there."

The knight motioned for the workers to enter and he looked back at the tunnel to Minas Mellon. "If I'm correct, we're getting closer to the water. Haedorial, you go up with the men. Mercatur and I will guard the rear in case that thing comes back."

The bard nodded and stepped into the huge pipes followed by Firiel. His feet sloshed in several inches of brackish water and he held his lamp ahead to light the way. The pipe soon began to slope downward and Haedorial heard Valandil say, "We need to hurry. I think that thing has broken through our barricade."

Haedorial picked up his pace, pushing against the two workers. "Quickly, quickly," he kept repeating as the sound of distant snarls echoed down the pipes. The water in the pipes quickly became choked with mud and vegetation and Haedorial struggled to move ahead. "Why are we stopping?" he said irritably when the workers came to a sudden halt.

"We can't go no further," one man said.

"Wait, there's a way down. I can see a ladder," said the other.

The bard pointed his light into the pipe and the rusty ladder became more visible. "Down…always further down," he said dejectedly as brown sludge poured into the hole. The two workers grunted and one put his foot on the top rung.

"Seems stable," he said and climbed down to a landing where more muddy water awaited him. "It keeps going further down, but the light gives out. I'll wait here."

The second man began his descent and then shouts came from the rear. Haedorial heard the twang of a bow and knew it must be Firiel, firing at something.

Snarls and hisses echoed in the pipes along with the sloshing of feet. The second man scrambled onto the landing and Haedorial reached out to grab the rungs. Rust peeled off in his hands and the acrid odor filled his nostrils. He reached the landing to the sound of fighting. The bow twanged a couple more times and then Firiel swung herself onto the ladder.

"Haedorial, make room!" she called as she climbed lower. The bard backed the workers into what looked like a flooded commode. Murky water was knee deep and shaky lights bounced off of the mire and rippled on the walls. He could hear Mercatur hacking with his axe and the shrieks and hisses of the rat beast.

"It's not a demon…I don't think it's a demon," Haedorial whispered to himself. "I don't know why. It must be the inspiration I'm getting from the tome I read. That's it!"

"What are you mumbling about?" Firiel asked as she stepped onto the landing. She drew her bow and knocked an arrow on the string. "Hold your lantern up the pipe," she told him.

Haedorial turned the lamp upward as Valandil began to descend and Mercutur's curses grew louder. Halfway down the ladder, one of the rungs snapped and Valandil slipped, handing by one hand. His torch fell into the abyss, passing Firiel and tumbled into shadow. At that moment, one of the workers cried out in pain and fear. Haedorial looked back into the dark.

_Dear Varda, we're done for. We're getting it from both sides. _

"Valandil!" Firiel yelled and began to sling her bow.

The knight waved her off. "No, keep covering. Mercatur is coming down," he called and his foot found another rung. The bard could see this was true – Mercatur appeared at the top of the pipe and took a mighty swing, connecting with something soft and fleshy. There was a shriek and then the man grasped the rungs and began sliding down.

Valandil leapt a few feet down to the landing and piled into Haedorial. The two crashed into the muddy water as the twang of the bow sounded out. The knight sloshed back to his feet and drew his sword. "We're only slowing that thing down. It keeps healing."

The bow fired again and an arrow pierced the chest of the rat beast, which was hidden in the dim light. It plucked the shaft from its flesh and hurled it into the abyss with a snarl. Then, it was gone.

Mercatur stepped onto the landing with a deep sigh. "The damn thing bit me," he said, holding his left arm. Blood seeped through the links of the thick chainmail that covered his limb.

Firiel took a look. "I'll wrap that up as soon as we move away from here. I think your armor took most of the injury." She began to remove the herbal pouch that she kept with her at all times.

Haedorial began to get a bad feeling. He stepped away from the landing and pointed his lantern into the next room. The two workers were there and one was pulling a long needle from his foot.

"It's a damn sea urchin," the injured man said with a curse. He yanked the black needle from his foot with a grimace.

Haedorial sighed. _Whew, it was nothing. Just a sea urchin. Thank the Valar we all made it here safely. I wonder what was bothering me so much earlier. Wait…the Nurga…it's not a demon. It's a lycanthrope…and Mercatur was bitten._


	27. A Light in the Darkness

Thanks to everyone! I'm also working on continuing my Silmarillion tale, The Court of Ardor.

**Beneath Aldarion's House**

**Spring**

**Mercatur**

_Damn, this bite itches. I'm going to clean that oversized rat's teeth if it's the last thing I do…demon or no demon. _

Holding up a lantern, the mercenary's feet sloshed through the water in the basement of Aldarion's House, a structure that was once the glory of Lond Daer. The explorers had come in through the sewer entrance into what looked like a commode.

"Creepin' into the king's privy…just the way I like it," he muttered as he scratched the wound on his belt.

Haedorial examined their surroundings and shook his head. "Looks to be more of a dormitory for the servants rather then the king's privy. I'd say the royal quarters would have been above us, but washed away by time. Look out for the sea urchins," he said as water sloshed around them.

Valandil led the way through the dormitory into a hall filled with water. A stone door was partially wedged open and the sound of the water slapping against the rock echoed.

"There's a lot of silt out here," said the knight as he entered the hall. His lantern cast an eerie glow which the group followed. Sloshing through the silted walkway, they wandered through empty rooms, shorn of their Númenorean glory by the passage of eons. Everywhere they went, Haedorial would scribble notes in his book.

"Damn silt…damn rats," Mercatur muttered. It seemed that the further they went, the worse his mood became. He caught the bard staring at him and locked the smaller man in eye contact. Haedorial quickly looked away.

_That's right, bookmaster, you think you know it all, huh?_

Mercatur grunted and the wound burned like he was being stung by bees. This time he bit at it to ease the itching. _That poultice Firiel gave me isn't working anymore. This is driving me mad. I wish that bard would stop babbling about all that lost history crap._

As he massaged the wound, they sloshed past three wide staircases up, which were clogged in rubble and debris.

"We're not getting up that way," said Valandil as he prodded the massive stones with his sword. "Just one of those rocks weighs a ton or more, I'd guess."

"Aldarion's House would have been mighty indeed," Haedorial chimed in. The bard glanced back at Mercatur and his eyes betrayed his fear. "We must hurry, good knight," he urged Valandil, "We must hurry."

They pressed on through ever deepening waters, until the silty morass was up to Mercatur's knees. The mercenary grunted in pain, holding the wound tight. He set his lantern down on a stone that protruded from the water. "I've got to sit a moment."

Firiel rushed to him, leaving a wake behind her. She felt his forehead. "You're burning up! Valandil, we've got to stop. Mercatur is feverish. The wound's infected."

"It's nothing, woman. I just need a moment's rest."

She ignored him and began mixing another herbal pack. "Here, I need to dress the wound. Let me see it…damn, stop being so stubborn," she said with an edge of frustration and seized the injured arm. She unwrapped the red bandages and took in a deep breath. "It's not clotting. It's completely infected…. How can that be? It's only been a few hours."

"Just burn it already. I've been through worse."

Firiel was about to say something when Haedorial interrupted. "Kind lady, if you could spare a moment of time, I may be able to shed light on this situation. I need you to step over here, however."

Firiel nodded and set down the finished herbal pack. "Mercatur, apply it to the wound," she advised and then stepped away with the bard.

Mercatur did as he was told. _Never cross the lady when it comes to herbs and stuff. I'd just as soon she burn this stuff out though. _As he held the pack to his injured arm, he saw Firiel's eyes grow huge as Haedorial told her something.

He felt a surge of anger. _What's he told her? I don't like no secrets._ He stood and took a couple of sloshing steps, but something called to him. He stopped and turned about. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" one of the men in red shirts asked. "I didn't hear nothing."

**Haedorial**

Firiel's eyes widened in horror as he told her about the Nurga. "If I'm correct, the ancient Beffraen were occasionally afflicted with lycanthropy…they were shapeshifters. I don't know if any of your herbs can help him."

"There must be something we can do?"

The bard looked from side to side. "We must watch him. It seems that the disease has spread much more quickly than normal. He could succumb to the malaise within hours."

Mercatur's outburst caught everyone's attention and Haedorial grabbed Firiel with strong hands. "We must press on and quickly. We don't have much time."

Trying to focus the visions that had been passing through his head, Haedorial led the group onward into a series of large rooms. "This was the smithy," he announced as he waded into the middle. As he raised his lantern, the reflection of a hundred lights illuminated the room. Firiel gasped as the lights twinkled off of the dark water. Haedorial looked up and, to his amazement, an elaborate chandelier dangled above them. "Such was the mastery of the Númenoreans that their works could withstand the tests of time. Ahhh, what have we here?"

"Careful, now," said Firiel, cautioning him.

He reached down slowly and brought up a coil of wire and a small, silver hammer. He slowly examined the coil and then handed it to Firiel. "I think you could make use of this – it's a coil of Numenorean bow string. Incredibly preserved, it I might add."

"And the hammer," she asked.

"I suspect it belonged to the smith. It has a few barnacles and things growing on it, but it should be as good as new with a little work. Just at a glance, I'd say it was mithril…but I can't be sure."

Valandil took a quick look. "Sounds like we're on the right track."

Haedorial nodded. "Indeed we are. We must keep moving though," he said as he led them from the smithy back into the hall. He kept up a good pace, wading quickly through the silt toward the southern face of the basement. He reached another open doorway into the stone and pointed urgently. "I feel that the way is through here. Something is drawing me." Through the dim light, he saw Mercatur's pale face and knew that time was running out.

The bard strode through the muck toward the rear of the large chamber and began probing the walls. "It's here…I know it must be here."

Firiel came up and stood beside him. "What are you looking for?"

"A secret door…I sensed it in a vision."

In the distance, a shriek echoed down the corridor and a chill ran down Haedorial's spine. "The Nurga, it's coming…." He began to press at the wall more urgently and Mercatur began to twitch. The bard pointed back and called to Valandil, "Watch him!"

He turned back to the wall, not wanting to see what was coming. "Focus…focus," he whispered to himself. As the Nurga's wails grew in volume, Haedorial's hands found the niche in the stone and he pressed forward. A deep click was heard and then the roll of tumblers. "We're in!" he yelled back and then pushed the wall back.

Haedorial rushed in and almost fell down a long stairway. He braced himself on the rusted railing and Firiel caught him, holding him steady.

"Hurry," she said and he sped down the stairs along with the murky water. Screaming and the sounds of fighting echoed downward and Haedorial's breath came in ragged gasps and his heart pounded like the hammer of a smith. He landed in a deep pool of water at the base of the stairs and water splashed all around him. He quickly pushed open the stone door and the muck flowed into an unseen room.

Firiel was hot on his heels and the sound of screaming grew fainter.

_Dear Varda…dear Varda…save us!_

Haedorial could hear Mercatur bellowing in pain while hewing about with his axe. He pushed his way past the opening and he was greeted by an unexpected sight.

_By the Valar, do my eyes deceive me?_

His eyes swept across a long room, new, as if the tile had just been laid. The walls were whitewashed and a crystal chandelier dangled above, lit with tiny points of light. A man stood at the center of the room, dressed in archaic Númenorean robes. Before him stood an ebony pedestal, which held a large crystal rhombus. The man's hair matched the pedestal except for streaks of gray at his temples. He turned and looked at Haedorial and motioned to the crystal, which gave off a faint, violet light.

_This cannot be. How could he survive so long?_ thought Haedorial. _What does he want me to look at?_

The bard stepped forward on clean, white tile, inching toward the crystal. He looked into the man's eyes, which were just empty sockets and he gasped. The man pointed urgently toward the rhombus.

_I must look…I must._

**Firiel**

At the base of the stairs, Firiel looked back up, aiming her lantern that way. Screaming and snarling echoed downward and her gut tightened at the horrid sounds. Valandil appeared at the top of the stairs and she breathed a sigh of relief. His sword was bloody and his surcoat was covered in gore.

"Don't wait!" he ordered and waved her ahead. Then, he turned and she could hear him slashing at something.

She moved through the door into a long, abandoned chamber. Water surged into the room, swirling on the floor. In the lantern's light, she could see Haedorial sloshing toward the center, where an ebony pedestal stood, holding a glowing crystal.

"Haedorial, what is that?" she asked, but he didn't seem to hear her. Instead, he looked blankly into space, talking to someone who wasn't there. "Who are you talking to?" she asked in a near panic.

The sound of people running down the stairs could be heard now and then the splashing of feet in water. Valandil rounded the corner and turned with sword in hand. "Something's wrong with Mercatur! The last two workmen are dead. The Nurga is just behind me!"

Firiel set her lantern down and drew her bow. She had restrung her bow with the Númenorean wire and nocked an arrow. Valandil squatted into a defensive stance and set his sword to thrust. His chainmail glistened in the dim light and he looked back at Firiel. "We'll make our stand here."

As shrieks erupted into the chamber, followed by the giant lycanthropic rat, Valandil drove his sword into the beast's chest. An arrow followed, sinking deep into its flank. The Nurga wailed and hurled Valandil back into the silt with a blow from his arms. Mercatur walked in behind the Nurga, twitching and growing hair by the second.

Firiel fired another arrow into the Nurga as Valandil struggled to rise in the muck. She moved to reach out to the knight, but her vision was blinded by an intense light. She tried to look away, but the whiteness surrounded her. The thought she saw Haedorial take out the corroded mithril hammer and strike it on the crystal. A tune rang from the blow and Firiel's ears were filled with the reverberating tone. Everything seemed to move in slow motion and she could see the Nurga flailing about, thrashing water and silt.

Firiel tried to call out to Valandil, but her voice was lost in the ringing of the hammer. Her legs seemed weighted as she moved ahead and she grabbed the knight by his surcoat. The Nurga shrieked and looked down at them. Firiel tried to draw her short sword, but the silver hammer flew past her and imbedded itself into the Nurga's chest.

The beast let out an unearthly wail and clutched at the hammer, but to no avail. It staggered and struggled in the intense light while Mercatur covered his rat-like eyes. With a final gasp, the Nurga pitched over backward, falling into the muck-filled water.

Then, all went dark except for the fluttering flames of the lanterns.

Firiel looked around, trying to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. All that could be heard was the groans of the Nurga and the lapping of water.

Haedorial stirred. "What happened? Where did the man go? What happened to the room?" The bard strode up to the dying lycanthrope as it breathed its last. He reached down to take the mithril hammer from its chest and the body began to writhe and change before their very eyes. It twitched violently, causing everyone to take a step back, including Mercatur, whose rat-like transformation had been reversed. The beast shrank until its form was that of a short, squat man, covered in blueish tattoos.

Firiel looked on the body with horror. "Was that…a Beffraen? How did you kill it?"

The bard looked equally stunned. "I…I think so. The man," he said, pointing back to the crystal. "He was Númenorean. He reminded me that lycanthropes cannot tolerate silver…and mithril is the finest silver in Middle Earth. Didn't you see him?" he asked, looking around.

Firiel shook her head. "I saw no one else."

Suddenly, Mercatur spoke, "Angmar's Bones, what happened? Where am I?"

The healer rushed over to see Mercatur's look of confusion. "You were infected by the Nurga…you were becoming a lycanthrope."

"A whatathrope?"

"A changeling…a shapeshifter."

The mercenary slapped the palm of his hand to his helmet. "Oh, great. What now?"

Firiel took his arm forcefully and unwrapped the bandage, to reveal a clean wound. "By the Valar, this wound is nearly healed. I'd like to take credit, but I think something else is at work here."

Mercatur shrugged. "It takes more than an oversized rat to bring down a Rhudauran," he said with a smirk. "So, bardie, what's that crystal you found? Is it worth anything?"

Haedorial let out a sly smile – the tension in the group had dropped remarkably and everyone seemed almost giddy. "What we have here, my friend, is Aldarion's own seeing room. As you may know, the Palantíri were given to Elros Tar-Minyatur, the First King of Númenor, who was of course, the brother of Elrond."

"Yah yah, get on with it," the mercenary said with a groan.

"Of course, dear mercenary…Why, many great gifts were also given to the Númenoreans by the elves to include seeing stones such as this."

"Well, that's great and all, but we've been hunted by an overgrown rat, nearly drowned, and all over this freaking basement…where is the Mithril Room?"

Firiel nodded at Mercatur's words – indeed, she was impatient at the bard's need for drama.

Haedorial took it all in stride. "Patience, dear fellows," he said and stepped back up to the crystal. "All shall be revealed."

**Valandil**

The scene was magnificent. The rhombus came to life and glowed with an inner light that reflected violet hues across the room. As if by magic, the waters receded and the bare stone was replaced by white tile.

"Behold, the glory of the Númenoreans!" called Haedorial to wondered gasps.

Valandil staggered in awe as he stood in the room as it was in the days of the mighty kings of old. In the corner of the room, a fountain sprayed water over silver and gold figures of the Valar. Tall men of Westernesse strode into the room, led by a tall king, who towered over the knight and his friends. They gathered for the worship of the Valar and celebrated their kinship with the elves.

Haedorial motioned for them to follow and they walked through the walls like ghosts. Valandil gasped, but he stayed behind the bard as they moved through solid rock and sand to the nearby tower of Minas Iaur. There, they floated to the surface and saw the magnificence of the great city – tall spires; massive, squat sea walls; and a port that left Tharbad in shame.

Haedorial pointed to the ground. "Here, beneath us lies the Mithril Room."

Then, all went dark for a moment. Valandil opened his eyes and they stood on the wind blown dunes over ruined stone walls. "We're back on the surface?"

The smell of sea water and the sound of the surf filled his senses and Haedorial nodded. "Indeed, we are. Are you ready?"


End file.
